


My Immortal 2

by elisi



Series: My Immortal [5]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Captain Jack IS The Immortal, Character Study, Crossover, F/M, M/M, filling in all the blanks, yes i will break your heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23245057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisi/pseuds/elisi
Summary: The Immortal is Captain Jack Harkness. This is what happened next.
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Buffy Summers, Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones, Spike/Buffy Summers
Series: My Immortal [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1521254
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34
Collections: Buffyverse Top 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to my beta, KathyH, and to ruuger for the gorgeous banner. ♥
> 
> This fic is different from the original for several reasons:
> 
> 1) Where the original fic was mostly set in the Buffy ‘verse, this mostly takes place in the Torchwood ‘verse.  
> 2) Previously I focussed on Buffy and Jack and their relationship as one long continuous story. Here the stories are mostly interconnected stand-alones, written to fit in around canon, and dealing with various fallout from same.  
> 3) Some of this fallout will be from the events that took place during _The Year That Never Was_ , wherein the Master (an evil Time Lord and the Doctor’s arch nemesis) took over planet Earth, enslaving humankind - I wrote [a tie-in fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23051404/chapters/55131484) which, amongst other things, explored what happened to the Slayers. (At the end of the year time rewound, and only a handful of people - Jack included - remember what happened.)  
> 4) Since this story takes place post-NFA, I had to develop my own take on what happened to the Buffy 'verse characters, and it's all there for a reason.  
> 5) This story will go up (and including) _Children of Earth_ , and then the 'verse is pretty much done, except for a few side stories that I am still figuring out how to incorporate.

_Buffy: Oh my god, are you **twelve**?  
~  
Spike: It's him. The Immortal. This is what he does. Every time he shows up, I either lose my girl, get beaten by an angry mob, or get thrown in prison for tax evasion. Long story.  
~  
Captain’s Blog: But come on, check out those cheekbones. _

**Cardiff, Late spring 2008**

“I think Nostrovites are the busses of the rift - none for ages, and then you get three all in one go.”

Ianto raised an eyebrow, but didn’t look away from the road they were driving down.

“It’s a month since the last ones, not sure that qualifies as ‘all in one go’, sir.”

“Nit-picker. At least we only got one this time.”

Jack studied the rift activity locator in his hand, and watched the fuzzy dot meander about the tiny map.

“Left!”

“Afraid that’s impossible.”

Jack looked up and realised that Ianto was unfortunately correct. He had no qualms about using one-way streets the wrong way, but bollards were an obstacle even the Torchwood SUV couldn’t cope with.

“Fine. Double back, and let’s try to catch it on foot. Since we actually have the benefit of daylight for once.”

Soon afterwards they were stalking down Cardiff’s back streets, praying that they would find the Nostrovite before it found them... the area was a veritable labyrinth.

It was a cloudy day, but now and again the sun peeped through the clouds, as if the weather was trying to remember that it was actually almost summer. Jack had a feeling that it was going to be a good day - if they could get this Nostrovite out of the way quickly, he might even be able to talk Ianto into a quick tryst...

Glancing at the rift activity locator - now in Ianto’s hand - he cautiously turned a corner, eyes narrowing as he surveyed the surprisingly wide passage, gun at the ready.

And then a miracle happened.

A sunbeam fell down into the street, and into the golden light stepped a figure - an impossible figure, but one that Jack would have recognised anywhere.

“Princess...” he whispered, as the blonde young woman took another careful step into the alley, looking up and down - and then caught his eyes.

She stopped, frozen, and blinked in surprise.

_(She was shackled and bruised and silently grieving - yet defiant and unbowed, causing even the Master to back away.)_

“Immortal?” she asked, and even though he was too far away to hear the words, he could tell.

The next second he holstered the gun and started running, and he could have sworn that time stretched and he moved in slow-motion, as if he was the star of his own movie. The surprise on her face giving way to the bright, blinding smile that he still saw in his dreams, she began running too, and mere seconds later she was in his arms, so tiny and strong and just _Buffy_ that he thought he might cry...

_(The Master raised his hand, and death singed the air as the laser beam cut through her._  
_She fell down, lifeless and dead and gone, gone, **gone**...)_

When he finally put her down she looked at him with wonder, and somewhere deep down he felt another part of the horror of that dark year melt away.

“Immortal? What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he countered, and her eyes narrowed.

“Oh no, gentlemen first.”

He laughed, because he’d missed this _so much_.

“I live here.”

At this she did the most adorable ‘Huh?’ face, and then shook her head, clearly not believing him for a second.

“ _You_. Live _here_? _The_ Immortal, the toast of Rome’s social scene, with his luxury mansion and his cars and his faithful servants... Lives in _Cardiff_?”

He more sensed than saw Ianto come up behind him, and thanked whatever powers there might be above that it was him and not one of the others. Ianto, he knew, would be able to keep the secret.

“Told you that whole racket was just a place to get away from things. This is where I work.”

“Why?”

And this was the problem with Buffy, here. But was there any point in being evasive now? She’d probably figure it out somehow or other, and he really didn’t want to retcon her...

“There’s a rift in time and space running through Cardiff. My team and I monitor it, and deal with anything that comes through.”

Buffy looked thoughtful.

“You know, that explains a lot. We came here because-” she stopped and looked around, then rolled her eyes dramatically.

“ _Spike_. For Pete’s sake get out here!”

Jack’s heart skipped a beat.

“Spike? He’s _alive_?”

She turned back to him, nodding, and the smile on her face made the sun seem dull in comparison.

“ _Alive_ alive. There was this prophecy, the shoo-something-or-other, and... he became human!”

And indeed, into the sunlight stepped a very much alive and kicking Spike, hair still blonde and coat long and black and quite, quite fetching. Although, as usual, he looked as if he was about to commit murder. Jack could hear Ianto’s swift intake of breath, but hoped he’d not shoot without permission.

“Spike!” he said, throwing his arms out wide, “Long time no see! Welcome to Cardiff!”

Spike, however, was obviously not going to play along, studying Jack with undiluted anger.

“Touch my wife again, and I’ll bloody kill you.”

Jack pivoted back to Buffy.

“ _Wife_?”

Still beaming she held up her hand, showing off a beautiful, and very deeply set, diamond ring.

“Almost a year now...”

Laughing he picked her up again, swinging her around, ignoring Spike’s cursing. There had been that incident with Dru back in the Fifties, hadn’t there... He chuckled at the memory, and thought that it was funny how history kept repeating itself. Oh today _was_ a good day, he’d been so right!

“Congratulations! If I’d known I’d have thrown you a party.”

Hearing a polite cough, he gently put her down (no need to make Spike _literally_ explode) and turned to Ianto, beaming.

“Ianto! Please allow me to introduce Buffy Summers- it’s still Summers, right?- and Spike. Spike, Buffy, this is Ianto Jones, my-”

Suddenly faltering he tried to work out what the best term might be. Colleague, archivist, employee... no, too formal. Lover? Too intimate. Partner, boyfriend... no. Not going there.

Thankfully Buffy solved the conundrum by looking Ianto over and offering a suggestion of her own.

“Your Englishman in a suit?”

Abruptly reminded of his first encounter with Giles, Jack doubled over laughing, whilst simultaneously trying to explain that that was it _exactly_.

Ianto shot him a look - one of those that held about twenty different meanings - and held out his hand to Buffy.

“ _Welsh_ man,” he corrected primly, “pleasure to meet you.”

He then turned to Spike, both men hesitating momentarily before manners or upbringing or face-saving made them briefly shake hands, studying each other with barely concealed hostility and suspicion. Jack knew he’d have to explain Spike’s face soon, but figured they’d probably not come to blows just yet and so turned to Buffy.

“Buffy... I’ve missed you like you can’t believe.”

Reaching out and laying a hand on his arm (ignoring the quiet hiss from Spike) she smiled warmly.

“So, why did you never call? I had a wedding invitation for you.”

“You were going to invite _him_?” Spike exclaimed, but Jack’s attention was diverted by Ianto.

“Nostrovite!”

The creature had obviously decided that it was tired of being trapped and had resolved to make a run for it. Grasping the situation in a flash, Jack turned to see Ianto already aiming his gun.

“Don’t!” he called out, grabbing his arm and turning to Buffy.

“We have guests. Princess, if you want to do the honours?”

“Sure,” she grinned, a split-second later sailing through the air and kicking the Nostrovite solidly in the middle.

Not letting go of Ianto, Jack pulled him back until they were flush against the wall, where Spike, somewhat reluctantly, joined them.

“Just watch, trust me. Because this? Is the Eighth Wonder of the World.”

Ianto looked uncertain, but then his eyes went back to Buffy and they all three fell silent.

Buffy was clearly enjoying her audience, and Jack drank in the sight of her with pure relish... Five - no four years since he’d last witnessed this. (The Year That Never Was didn’t count. He had to stop adding it...)

“Spike - you’re the luckiest man in the world,” he observed, and Spike nodded, eyes fixed on his wife.

“Tell me about it.”

“How-” Ianto started uncertainly, “how is she doing that? Is she an alien?”

“Vampire Slayer,” Jack explained, “perfectly human, just with super powers.”

“Right,” Ianto said, obviously not quite paying attention to Jack anymore.

Jack absentmindedly wondered what he’d have to do to talk Spike into a foursome, as happy memories began crowding into his head. She was so _limber_...

“Buffy - watch out for its teeth!” he called out, noticing a near-bite, and Buffy shot him a look so droll he was suprised the air didn’t dry out.

“Thanks Mr Helpful.”

“No really - it can impregnate you with a bite.”

“Ew.”

His words clearly made her decide to finish off, and mere moments later her strong hands were around the Nostrovite’s neck, snapping it like a twig.

Jack grinned, noticing the stunned look on Ianto’s face, and clapped.

Buffy, however, was studying her sleeve with a worried look, taking in the great glob of blue spew that was stuck to the white fabric - then caught Spike’s eyes.

“Don’t. Say. A. Word.”

Spike opened his mouth, then closed it firmly.

Then Ianto stepped forwards, gently taking her arm in his hands, and getting out a handkerchief.

“If you’ll allow me?”

Removing most of the sputum, he studied the sleeve with an expert eye.

“I think I can probably get the rest out back in the Hub - I’m used to getting anything and everything out of Jack’s clothes.”

Buffy started to say thank you, then cut herself off abruptly, turning to Jack.

“‘Jack’? You have a _name_?”

Ianto shrugged.

“It’s not his real one.”

Buffy looked from one to the other, eyes narrowing, and Jack shot Ianto an annoyed look.

“But it _is_ the one I’ve been using the longest.”

Then, snapping to attention, he plastered on his most official smile, vividly recalling the day he’d turned up in full World War II pilot regalia at her door. Good day - especially since it had also brought with it a certain Ermanno Mancini. Christ, that boy had been a good kisser.

“Captain Jack Harkness at your service Ma’am.”

“You’re not impressing anyone,” Spike said. “C’mon Buffy, let’s go before he tries any of his tricks.”

“ _Or_ ,” Jack said, voice as seductive as he could make it, “you could come with me and see my big, underground, science-fiction superbase? I have a pet pterodactyl.”

“Bollocks!” Spike said, as Buffy’s eyes narrowed, uncertain. Jack tilted his head.

“Hey, I’m telling the truth for once. I’m a genuine alien-hunter. Andrew is absolutely right - there _is_ a huge government conspiracy and I’ve been part of it for more than a hundred years.”

“Why tell me now?” Buffy asked, and he grinned.

“Well you just killed an alien...”

“He wants to show off,” Spike interrupted, “Plus it’s a trap. It’s _always_ a trap!”

Buffy’s smile returned as she affectionately looked Jack over, and part of him wanted to clobber Spike and Ianto over the head and run away with her again. The fun they’d had...

“Of _course_ he’s showing off, it’s what he’s best at. And Spike - stop being jealous and paranoid.”

“ _Paranoid_?” Spike spluttered, incredulous. “Do you have _any_ idea what he’s done to me?”

”Yes,” Buffy answered, sighing. “So shut up. Immortal, I would love to see your big secret base... thing.”

Spike glowered, but seemed to accept that she’d go whether he did or not. Ianto, ignoring the marital disagreement, looked at Jack.

“I think it’ll be easier if I bring the car round.”

“Good thinking,” Jack replied, laying a hand on his arm, but Ianto shot him an inscrutable look and walked off in the direction of the parked SUV. Jack couldn’t quite work out if he was in trouble or not, so he decided not to worry about it and just to enjoy Buffy.

“So... you never told me what brings you to Cardiff,” he said, shooting her a pointed look, and she smiled good-naturedly.

“Well the short story is that one of our departments has been busy mapping demonic and magical activity, and Cardiff... well, there’s hardly any demons here at all, and the magical levels are, like, zero. And yet you’ve got Sunnydale statistics. Figured something was up.”

“Yeah, that would be the rift...” he said slowly. “I thought we’d done something with the statistics though. Will have to ask Tosh to get onto that again.”

He pondered the problem for a second, and then dismissed it, because he could see Spike getting ready to say _something_ , and there were more pressing points.

Especially considering that Spike was like nitro-glycerine to handle...

“Listen,” he looked from one to the other, “I need you to do me a favour.”

Spike snorted.

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me!”

“No. It’s very simple - just don’t tell any of my team about my life in Rome. Don’t use that name, don’t talk about the house or... any of it. By all means say that you hate me, just keep any particulars out of the conversation. I’ve kept my aliases separate for more than a hundred years, and I would really like that to continue.”

There was a look of uncertainty in Spike’s eyes as he studied him, and really it was a rather incongruous proposition, Jack supposed.

“And give me one good reason I should do this?” Spike finally said.

“Well I kept _your_ secret.”

Spike frowned.

“And what secret would that be?”

Jack shot Buffy a quick look - he didn’t want to do this, but...

“I never told Buffy you were alive.”

The surprise on Spike’s face was more than matched by Buffy’s, as she studied him with a look of shock and resigned hurt that he really didn’t like.

“You _knew_?”

“I found out. Long story.”

“But you never said...”

He smiled sadly.

“I was going to tell you when I left. Except circumstances... well, you know. I did think about telling you before, but I’m very selfish sometimes, and I wanted to keep you.”

He saw her opening her mouth and forestalled her.

“As if you’d have stayed with me, knowing that he was alive.”

He turned to Spike.

“See? You win. So please, do this one thing for me.”

“And if I don’t?” He could almost _feel_ Spike’s pleasure at finally having the upper hand, and shook his head.

“Then I’ll have to shave your visit off their memories. My world, my rules.”

Buffy was scrutinising him now, with that look of semi-disbelief that he well remembered, and not a little hostility.

“You would seriously mindwipe your friends?”

“If I had to, yes.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed.

“And what about the pretty boy in the suit?”

Jack smiled.

“The ‘pretty boy’ knows how to keep a secret.”

Seeing that Spike was none too impressed he tilted his head.

“Just - will you do it for Buffy’s sake?”

There was a beat as they watched each other in silence, then Spike reluctantly nodded.

“Fine. But I don’t trust you.”

“I’m not asking you to trust me. I’m asking you to keep schtum.”

At that moment the SUV’s horn beeped, and Jack turned to see Ianto emerge from the vehicle, body bag in hand. Time for a little cleanup.

“I don’t like this,” Spike said as they disposed of the Nostrovite in the back of the car. “Just wait, he’s got a plan.”

Buffy sighed deeply, and Jack shrugged, holding open the door to the back seat.

“By all means, stay here. Buffy?”

Buffy climbed in, and a second later Spike followed, although if looks could kill Jack would have been dead. Lucky for him that he was immortal. The atmosphere in the car was somewhat strained, and Ianto kept his eyes on the road, driving in silence until they neared the waterfront.

“I’m presuming you want to take them on the lift?” he asked, and Jack grinned.

“Oh Mister Jones, you know me too well!”

He jumped out and opened the door for his guests.

“Please follow me!”

Buffy, a little wary, but used to his antics, jumped out, followed by a more-hostile-by-the-second Spike. Jack beamed at them. Some days, _everyone lived_. He had Buffy back, with bonus Spike, and it might just be one of the best days ever.

Before Ianto could drive off, however, he caught hold of a wing mirror, and Ianto lowered his window.

“Just... don’t mention the ‘Immortal’ thing, OK?”

Seeing the objection on the other’s face, he smoothed it over with a promise of explaining everything later.

“Everything?” Ianto asked, and Jack bit his lip.

“It’s a whole different life... Please?”

He could see Ianto’s curiosity overtake his hostility, and sighed with relief. Then he turned to his guests and started walking across Roald Dahl Plass. It was a far cry from Rome, but it was _his_ , through and through... The Water Tower ahead of them caught the sunlight, refracting and scattering it, and in that moment there was nowhere else in the whole universe Jack would rather have been.

“And here we are - please step on board my invisible lift!”

He waved to the nearest CCTV camera, knowing that someone was probably watching below, and then beckoned Spike and Buffy to join him.

They did so, a bit cautiously, and he chuckled as the big paving slab slowly descended, their eyes growing wider and wider as the huge cavern spread out around them, dark and mysterious - the very antithesis of the elegance of his Rome mansion.

“Well you obviously like space...” Buffy said faintly.

“I hope you don’t have a problem with heights?” he asked, concernedly, noticing the way she had grasped onto Spike’s arm, and a small smile appeared in the corner of her mouth.

“I’ve been in a Hellmouth. This is nothing. Also, not my first secret government underground sci-fi base. Although yours looks _way_ older than The Initiative's.”

And there it was - that perfect self-assurance. It was times like these that his heart had always been the most in danger... Chuckling at himself he looked at Spike, who was trying his best to affect boredom.

“Where’s this pterodactyl then?” he asked, and Jack shrugged.

“Oh it’s around. Might be out stretching its wings - look there’s its nest.”

Being nearly at floor level by now he jumped off and turned to them, spreading out his arms.

“Welcome to Torchwood!”

The next second Gwen, Tosh and Owen sprang out from nowhere, guns pointing straight at Spike.

“Don’t even think about it!” Gwen said coldly, as Buffy and Spike stared around bewildered, before Spike pointed at Jack, furious, but glowing with vindication.

“What did I say? It’s a trap! It’s _always_ a trap! You see? I was right!”

Swearing under his breath Jack held up a hand.

“Spike- shut up!”

Then he turned to his team, slowly lowering his hand.

“Weapons _down_! It’s not him.”

Owen shot him a look that was quite frankly insultingly patronising, gun still trained straight on Spike’s chest.

“Oh please Jack, pull the other one. Come on, check out those cheekbones!”

Jack stared.

“You read my log?”

There was a sudden discomfort in the ranks. Tosh cleared her throat.

“It... was forwarded to everyone after the... incident.”

“Oh,” he said slowly, reminding himself that a jealous Ianto should never be underestimated.

“Would you please explain what’s happening?” Buffy asked, pointedly, and he sighed.

“OK. He-” Jack pointed to Spike, “-happens to be a complete doppelganger of my ex-partner. Said ex-partner dropped by recently and caused some trouble. So, my team are a little... wary.”

He frowned at them. “I said weapons _down_!”

“What do you mean ‘ex-partner’?” Spike asked guardedly, and Jack grinned wickedly.

“Whatever you’re imagining in the darkest corners of your mind - turn it up to eleven.”

Spike’s face was a picture, and Jack tried to tell himself not to go overboard. But why not...

He took a step closer to Spike.

“We were partners in _every_ way - and then some. See, you always misunderstood me, Spike. I never hated you. Quite the opposite in fact...”

He followed the statement with a significant look, and then, before the other could retaliate, began the introductions.

“Sorry everyone, I should have called ahead. Because this-” he threw out an arm, “is Buffy Summers, the Vampire Slayer. With her is her husband, the usually very charming Spike.”

The weapons - finally - got lowered.

“Vampire Slayer?” Owen said, eyes narrowing. “Now you’re just taking the mick.”

“Says the zombie,” Jack pointed out. “Buffy, Spike - this is Owen Harper, our doctor. Next to him is Toshiko Sato, our computer expert, and last is Gwen Cooper-Williams.”

“Zombie?” Spike asked, studying Owen with a frown, and obviously in a hurry to move on from what Jack had just been implying. “He’s not like any zombie I have ever seen.”

“Gotta agree with you there,” Buffy chimed in, and Owen glared at Jack.

”Not a zombie. Just... dead. But re-animated. There was this whole thing where I fought Death and won.”

“So you’re like... like Jack?” Buffy asked, curious, and Owen shook his head.

“Nah. I’ve not got any of the perks, I’m just un-dead.”

Spike looked intrigued.

“Well, speaking as a former member of the undead club-”

“Former?” Tosh asked. “What do you mean?”

“Spike used to be a vampire,” Jack explained.

“ _Used_ to?” Owen asked, incredulous. “He just got better one day?”

“It was a prophecy,” Buffy said, that bright smile back again.

“No but really - a _vampire_?” Gwen asked. “Vampires are real?”

“Course they’re real,” Jack replied. “We’ve got one in storage.”

“We do?”

Gwen was adorable when she was confused, but before he could answer, Buffy cut in.

“You have a vampire in storage?” she asked, as if this was some kind of personal affront, and Jack sighed.

“Long story. Can we move on from this?”

“I don’t know,” Owen said coolly, studying Spike. “I don’t trust him.”

Jack sighed. He should have foreseen this.

“I would trust this man with the fate of the world. Which, incidentally he has saved. Personally. Several times. Once by dying. Also, he hates me.”

“But his wife doesn’t...” Owen said, raising an eyebrow, and Jack looked at Buffy.

“Oh no. Come on, let me give you the tour.”

He started showing his guests round, the team members hovering at the margins, and Buffy excitedly taking everything in whilst keeping a firm hold of Spike’s hand - more from a need to keep him under control than anything else as far as Jack could work out.

“So, how _do_ you and Buffy know each other?” Gwen finally asked, and Jack couldn’t help smiling.

“Oh we had a thing back in... 2004 was it? In Rome.”

“A ‘thing’?” Tosh prompted, and Buffy caught Jack’s eyes, her eyes dancing as she answered.

“A... fairytale thing.”

Jack held her eyes, adding: “She was Princess Buffy...”

“...And he was Prince Charming,” Buffy continued, as he took her hand and gently kissed it.

“We had a ball,” he finished, remembering that perfect night very vividly still, and idly wondered if any of them would work out that he meant literally. The subdued fury on Spike’s face only added to his amusement, but he figured that Buffy could probably deal with him.

“I _bet_ you did,” Owen said, shooting Jack a significant look, and Jack began to worry that Spike might explode.

“Hang on,” Tosh said, brow furrowing. “In Rome? _She_ was the girl in Rome?”

“Indeed she was.”

“But you said... Oh I don’t remember... something about a one-eyed witch?”

“No. I said that her best friends were a lesbian witch and a one-eyed carpenter. Which is perfectly true.”

“No really?” Tosh was staring at Buffy, who clearly didn’t think that the people with a zombie for a co-worker had any cause for being weirded out.

“Yes...”

“And why were you in Rome in 2004?” Owen asked suspiciously, and Jack cast his mind back.

“Ettian spaceship crashed outside the town. It was full of radiation so I offered to take it apart for UNIT and got myself a holiday in the sun on top.”

“Wait!” Buffy said, staring at him. “I remember something... big meteor crater, and Andrew kept going on about how it had to be aliens. Well until he started obsessing over you...”

Jack smirked.

“Like I said before, he was absolutely right. It _was_ a spaceship, and the government were covering it up - with my help. Remember that night when we went out to that military airport late at night? All the top secret stuff was alien technology for NASA.”

Buffy slowly shook her head, as Jack turned to Tosh.

“Incidentally Andrew was the guy who wrote the blueprints I gave you - the invisibility gun, remember?”

“We have an invisibility gun?” Gwen asked - clearly wondering how many more things she'd never been told about - and Tosh shook her head.

“Unfortunately no - the theory was almost perfect, but...”

She hesitated.

“I never managed to adapt it to a different power source than the one it was originally modelled around.”

“Which would be what?” Owen inquired.

“A magical diamond,” Buffy answered chirpily, clearly beginning to enjoy herself. Spike was keeping mercifully silent - although that might have something to do with the _very_ firm grip Buffy had on his hand...

“A magical diamond...” Owen slowly repeated, as Buffy’s face turned musing and she turned to Jack.

“Don’t suppose you ever found out how magic works?”

_(A bright smile, and dancing, malicious eyes..._  
_“Well then children, let’s have a little history lesson.”)_

The abrupt flashback momentarily paralysed him, and he had to fight to keep his smile in place. He still - although less frequently now - woke up from restless sleep, gasping into the night and clinging onto Ianto, as he tried to banish the memory of being drenched in Willow’s blood...

“I did actually,” he said, as lightly as he could, “but that’s another story. Here, have a look at our resident Weevil. I call her Janet.”

“Um OK... And what’s a ‘Weevil’ when it’s a home?”

Buffy was on the verge on wrinkling her nose as she looked at the alien in the bare cell. He was blatantly avoiding her question about magic, but she was used to that, and thankfully didn’t start probing any deeper. Trying his hardest to cram his far too vivid nightmares to the back of his mind, he concentrated on talking about weevils.

“We don’t know. Don’t even know what planet they’re from. We get a fair few through the rift, but they tend to stay in the sewers.”

“So why’s this one locked up?” Spike cut in, watching the Weevil with great focus, having apparently forgotten about his one-man campaign to try to kill Jack by scowling.

“Because otherwise she’d rip our throats out,” Ianto commented drily.

Jack hadn’t noticed him returning, but sent him a bright smile which could serve as either welcome back or warning. Plus, if he knew Ianto at all, Jack would bet that there would be exquisite afternoon tea ready in a few minutes...

Spike, ignoring Ianto, stepped closer to the see-through barrier, fishing a knife out of his boot as he did so. Gwen started to speak, but Jack stopped her, as Spike with great care cut a small sharp line in his palm, fluidly depositing the knife back in the boot as he held up his hand close to the air holes.

“But he’s-” Owen protested, and Jack shook his head.

“No. Just wait.”

As soon as Janet caught the scent she lurched forwards, throwing herself at the re-enforced plastic, and Spike’s face split in a wide grin.

“You like that, don’t you gorgeous? Mmm, thought you might.”

There was a beat, then Gwen spoke again.

“...Did he just call a Weevil _gorgeous_?”

“Yes, he did,” Owen said, studying Spike incredulously. “Jack - is _everyone_ you know a complete freak?”

“I’m not a freak,” Spike said softly, eyes still focussed on Janet. “Not anymore. And she....”

He held up his hand again, and Janet snarled against the invisible barrier, frentic. Spike was watching her, enthralled, and speaking more to himself than anyone else, Jack suspected.

“She’s everything I lost. You humans, you have no idea what it’s like to have nothing but pure instinct guiding you, fists and fangs and blood, calling to something deeper than...”

Jack noticed that Buffy had wrapped her arms around herself, face closed off and resigned. Then Spike abruptly turned, cold eyes on Jack.

“Why’s she locked up?”

“I believe Ianto already answered that?”

Spike slowly shook his head.

“So you just... keep her there?”

“Yes...” he said, unsure where Spike was going with this.

Spike shot Janet a quick look.

“I was a monster in a cage once. And I know that I’d rather have been staked than stay like that.”

Jack features hardened.

“I do not execute innocent creatures.”

“That-” Spike pointed to Janet, “-is no better than bloody torture! Next you’ll shove a chip in her head, I know.”

Jack took a deep breath, trying to will Spike into calming down.

“Behavioural modification technology isn’t our jurisdiction. I’m sorry about what the Demon Research Initiative did to you - I honestly had no idea...”

Spike tilted his head with perfect contempt.

“Oh shut _up_! You always do this - this fuckin’ grandstanding, like you’re the bleeding king of the world. You’ve always, always, _always_ been like this, you sanctimonious bastard, ever since we first met!”

“Spike, calm down....”

“No I will _not_. You’re here with your super friends and your sci-fi bat cave, showing off as usual.”

“Spike-” Buffy began, but he turned on her angrily.

“Oh don’t _you_ start. I had all the arguments more than a hundred years ago from Dru and Darla and hearing them from your mouth don’t make ‘em any better. He goes where he wants and takes what he wants and everyone else is just shoved out of the way. If _he_ wants to keep creatures locked up, then so be it.”

Jack was rapidly beginning to remember why Spike was such an infuriating person to be around.

“Spike? Please stop talking about things you know _nothing_ about!”

“I know enough,” Spike shot back. “And I’ve heard all your little fans singing your praises.”

“ _Spike!_ Just... Can we not do this now? I wanted us to have a nice time.”

Belatedly he realised that this had been entirely the wrong thing to say, as Spike’s mouth curled into a sneer.

“Ah so that’s how it is. What about all the times - as a matter of fact every _single_ time we’ve met - that you’ve ruined _my_ good times? Stealing our nuns, violating our women-”

“Hey- that was all their idea!”

Spike, however, continued unaffected, “-pinchin’ our Rathrun eggs, not to mention the angry mobs and that time I got thrown in prison!”

Jack threw his hands in the air, frustrated.

“You were _evil_! Your idea of a ‘nice time’ involved torturing people!”

“Oh please, get off your high horse. No one gets a reputation like yours without getting their hands dirty!”

Keep calm, Jack told himself. Don’t let him get the better of you.

“Spike - look we’re on the same side now, OK?”

Spike sniffed.

“Well that accounts for stealing our head and blowing us up.”

Jack frowned, not following.

“You mean in Rome? I took care of the head, yes, since there would have been a _war_ otherwise, and you and Angel were just fooling around. But I never blew you up. Didn’t know you had been.”

An eloquently raised eyebrow of disbelief shot up.

“ _Bull. Shit_. Destroyed my coat too.”

Jack looked him over, unimpressed. He wasn’t about to pay for someone else’s crimes.

“Looks fine to me.”

“That’s cause it’s a new one.”

Fine, Jack thought. If Spike wanted to play dirty, then so be it.

“Unlike the one you took off the Slayer you murdered.”

“Added sentimental value,” the other sniffed, not blinking.

“But I didn’t blow you up. Was it Giuseppe? You really pissed him off you know.”

“Oh yeah, just fob off the responsibility onto one of your lackeys.”

They were nose-to-nose now, Spike’s blue eyes bristling with anger and arms folded defiantly... and the sparks between them hit Jack so forcibly that for a moment he could barely breathe. A pattern, ingrained to perfection from years' worth of practice and so very recently brought to the fore gripped hold of him, and he knew himself to be as helpless as Pavlov’s dog.

For a second he closed his eyes, but escape was impossible. Slowly he opened them again, looking deep into Spike’s furious gaze and swallowing against the beating of his heart.

“On a scale of one to ten, just how hard would you hit me if I kissed you now?”

Spike’s jaw dropped.

“What?”

“Oh come _on_. You might not be a vampire anymore, but I refuse to believe that the threat of violence doesn’t turn you on!”

Spike, if possible, looked even _more_ furious and outraged.

“Kiss me, and you’re _dead_!”

Jack grinned.

“Deal!”

Before Spike could react Jack grabbed hold of him, pulling him close and kissing him as thoroughly as he possibly could. Spike fought back of course, but he was only human these days, and Jack was more than used to holding this particular body in place with everything he had - his extra height and heft having always been a great help. And hot _damn_ , it was a good kiss - the anger just made it more delicious.

Finally Spike managed to break free, the fury on his face cold and deadly, and in less than a heartbeat his hands were around Jack’s head.

Then Jack knew nothing more, as the familiar emptiness of _nothingness_ engulfed him.


	2. Chapter 2

_Jack: These people, this planet, all the beauty you could never see. That's what I come back for.  
~  
Ianto: Coming here gave me meaning again. (Looks up at Jack) You.  
~  
‘No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.’  
Heraclitus_

With more satisfaction than he’d thought possible, Spike watched The Immortal’s body fall down on the floor. 

Finally. 

_(A hundred years of hurt/Never stopped me dreaming...)_

Maybe he should take a picture? Angel would appreciate that...

He didn’t get any further in his thoughts, however, since a fist came out of absolutely nowhere (bloody human senses, they were less than useless) and he found himself sprawled on the floor, staring up into the barrel of a gun, held by a furious Ianto.

“If you touch him again,” the young Welshman said, voice eerily calm, yet bristling with anger, “-no, if you so much as _look_ at him wrong - I _will_ kill you!”

Spike blinked, trying to ignore the sharp ache from the blow that was now throbbing on his cheekbone, and studied The Immortal’s incensed young lover distractedly, trying to work out why the words seemed familiar.

Then he smiled, turning his head.

“Hey Buffy - do you remember? That’s almost exactly what I told you after Mr Wooden Principal tried to stake me.”

He looked back up at Ianto, pointing a finger at him.

”I like you kid! If you ever feel like getting away from tall, dark and poncy there, come see me. I can get you a better job like _that_ -”

Ianto however was slowly lowering the gun, muttering something about everyone being insane, and Spike picked himself off the floor, belatedly realising that the other Torchwood people were all very silent. 

Turning to Buffy - wondering why she’d not answered yet - proved another mistake. This time the fist was small and familiar, and hit him straight on the nose - although at least she left him standing.

Blinking in pain he tried to focus on her blazing eyes.

“For crying out loud woman, what was that for?”

And now his nose was bleeding. Brilliant.

“For _killing_ him, you _moron_?”

“He’s _immortal_! And I warned him-”

“Oh no you don’t!” Buffy’s face was not to be messed with. “ _You_ are going to apologise! First to his friends, and then to him when he wakes up.”

Spike loved Buffy. It was one of the fundamental truths of his life. But he wasn’t blind to her flaws, and sometimes...

“What? No fucking way am I ever apologising!”

“Spike...”

“ _No_. Not now, not _ever_. He’s had this coming for more than a hundred years! Hell, he bleedin’ _asked_ for it.” 

Buffy, however, was just shaking her head silently.

“I can’t believe you. You _know_ how much it hurts to come back from death-”

“Oh boo hoo, poor ickle Immortal. Should be used to it by now, then, shouldn’t he?”

“Spike!”

He sighed. _Women._

“You never let me kill anything anymore...”

“Oh we are _so_ not having this argument right now.”

She looked somewhere between furious and mortified, but when he tried to speak up again, she cut him off.

“Fine. You know what, why don’t you ask them to set that weevil thing free? Then you can fulfil that death wish you’ve clearly not got rid of yet. Oh! I just remembered - they have a vampire in storage. I’m sure it’d be _delighted_ to sire you - would _that_ make you happy?”

Oh crap. He’d well and truly shaken the hornets’ nest this time.

“Buffy...”

She buried her head in her hands and then ignored him to look around at the others.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to... Oh God, what you must think. I swear he’s not...”

Gwen smiled, and laid a hand on Buffy’s arm.

“Oh don’t worry. We’re used to emotions running high.”

Ianto, now sitting by The Immortal’s side, cradling his head, didn’t say a word, just glared daggers. 

“Thanks,” Buffy smiled uncertainly, then turned to Spike.

“You’re not off the hook. We’ll finish this later.”

Then she stepped forwards to The Immortal’s side, kneeling down.

“Never thought I’d see this again,” she said softly, and, after a look at Ianto to make sure that it was OK, gently brushed The Immortal’s hair away from his forehead. Spike stepped back, frustrated, watching as Ianto studied Buffy.

“You’ve seen this before?” Ianto asked quietly.

“Oh yeah,” Buffy replied, for a moment resting her hand on The Immortal’s chest. “Not the sort of thing you forget.”

Spike, glumly focussed on the spectacle in front of him, nearly jumped when a handful of tissues were held out to him. Looking up he saw Owen, the dead doctor, watching him with a curious expression.

With a mumbled ‘thanks’ he held the tissues up to his nose, finally able to stem the tide of blood more effectively, and Owen leaned against the wall next to him companionably.

“Don’t worry about Jack - most of us have threatened to kill him at one time or another. Except me, who actually did it. ‘Sanctimonious bastard’ hits it pretty well on the head.”

Spike raised an eyebrow.

“I’m in good company then?”

Owen shrugged.

“Dunno. I didn’t know he was immortal when I killed him.”

This made Spike study the other man properly for the first time.

“Huh. Did the boy in the suit threaten to shoot you too?”

The doctor shook his head.

“He’d already shot me the day before - in the shoulder mind you. But then it all got a bit complicated...” His eyes narrowed, studying the scene in front of them. 

“Not that our Mr Jones hasn’t held a gun to Jack’s head himself.”

Spike tilted his head, by now thoroughly intrigued. Owen sniffed.

“Can’t work for Torchwood without being completely screwed up one way or another. Although Jack is obviously more screwed up than all of us together.”

As Spike tried to work his head around all this new information, The Immortal gasped back into life, and their conversation was interrupted.

***

When the world came rushing back (why did it have to _hurt_ so much?) Jack felt strong young arms holding him, and grasped onto them gratefully. He could do this forever, as long as he had arms to come back to...

Then he looked up, catching Buffy’s eyes, and for an endless moment allowed himself to drown in the recognition he saw there.

***

‘Welcome back, Immortal’ Buffy thought, even as she wondered how he still, after all these years, could make her heart feel like it was breaking.

For an endless moment they held each other’s eyes, and she knew that he remembered the first time. The understanding they’d shared. The moment that had tipped her world sideways...

He was such a contradiction; so ruthless and unyielding (she had no doubt that he’d actually mindwipe his team if he thought it necessary), and yet- 

What had her name been, that demon girl that he’d been _given_... Venus, that was it. An innocent girl, caught up in bigger events, and he _still_ \- more than half a century later - grieved her untimely death during World War 2.

Part of her wanted to just grab him and run away into another fantasy world. Disappear, because she knew that they could. He had the power to go wherever he wanted, to be whoever he wanted...

The thought stalled her; and she broke the eye contact, stepping back and letting Ianto help him to his feet.

Because there was an invisible gulf all of a sudden. She had tried to tell herself that it was because they’d both moved on from their too-brief affair, but there was more to it. It wasn’t just that he wasn’t hers anymore, it was that _her_ Immortal - the man she had known so well - had been put aside, and ‘Jack’ was the man in front of her now. In many aspects the two men overlapped, but she still felt the differences keenly. 

The Immortal had been an integral part of her world, woven into legends and myths, a perfect blend of history and fairy tale made flesh.

But this man in a soldier’s uniform was something else. Although the uniform was aged, he was still much too real for her; too much part of all the stuff she had to deal with every day. 

But then that’s what he’d told her, wasn’t it? That being The Immortal was an escape from... well, this. Torchwood. 

The Immortal, after a quick private word with Ianto, looked around and then caught sight of Spike at the back, a large bruise now blossoming on his cheek and a wad of red-stained tissues held to his nose. 

Buffy felt a momentary pang of guilt, but was distracted by The Immortal’s wolfish grin, which was after a moment interrupted when he started rolling his shoulders, bending his neck this way and that. 

“Oooh, stiff. What did you do?”

A second’s pause, then Spike replied.

“Broke your neck.”

The Immortal nodded slowly, rubbing his right shoulder.

“Thought that might be it. Thank you. That’s more consideration than I’d expected.”

Spike removed the tissues from his face, and Owen quietly took them off him as Spike did a very long double take.

“...I’m sorry?” 

“Well, to choose a completely random example, your delightful lookalike threw me off a roof.”

A beat.

“Must have been a tall roof.”

“It was. Plus I landed on a bench which broke my spine.”

Spike’s eyebrows went up.

“Huh. Buffy broke mine once by throwing an organ on top of me. Spent _weeks_ in a wheelchair before I was better.”

Buffy, suddenly glimpsing the horrifying potential of a Spike/Immortal friendship, tried to laugh as she looked around the Torchwood people who were watching the exchange as if it were a tennis match.

“It was a... _really_ long time ago. And he was evil then. I-”

“A couple of weeks in a wheelchair after a broken spine?” Owen cut in, studying Spike with blank disbelief.

“Vampire constitution,” Spike sighed, “bloody marvellous thing. Don’t mind telling you - being human is a downgrade and a half, physically.”

“Don’t knock it mate,” Owen said, holding up his left hand where two fingers were bandaged.

“Broke these after I died. Won’t ever heal. No biological functions at all.”

Spike studied him levelly.

“Try being a ghost. No biology whatsoever.”

There was another of those ‘What did he just say?” moments, and Spike looked around at the disbelieving faces around him.

“I swear, honest to the deity of your choice, that I was a real ghost for about six months in 2003.”

“But- but how?”

“Long story, although it began when I burned to death saving the world...”

He abruptly turned to The Immortal.

“Burnin’ - now why didn’t I think of that? Can I kill you again, on account of the first time bein’ so easy an’ all?”

The Immortal’s eyes began to shimmer in the way that Buffy knew (and rather dreaded).

“If you want to kill me again, you’ll have to let me kiss you again.”

Before Spike could reply, Ianto cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, but I actually came to say that afternoon tea is served in the conference room. Maybe you could continue the conversation there?”

Buffy decided that Ianto was probably her new favourite person.

***

Not much later Ianto had managed to get everyone seated around the large oval table, and by the magic of tea (or possibly Spike’s somewhat calmer attitude) everyone was beginning to relax, and chatter filled the bright room.

Jack was of course sitting at the head of the table, with Spike and Buffy at the other end, and the rest of the team seated in between - apart from Ianto himself who was trying his best to melt into the walls as he carefully studied their guests, half-listening in on the various conversations.

Gwen was curious about what being a Slayer entailed - especially how Buffy balanced her fighting with her marriage - and the two women were bonding with great speed, comparing notes on worried husbands; with timely interjections from Jack that made both women roll their eyes in unison. 

Tosh and Owen on the other hand were trying to get to grips with all the various transformations Spike had been through, and Ianto could tell that they were probably mere seconds away from running away and fetching every scanning equipment they could find.

Having ascertained that all the discussions were utterly uninteresting Ianto tuned them out. The only thing _he_ was interested in was Buffy...

Getting a chance to meet one of Jack’s exes was like gold dust. Captain John had been like Jack in a mirror, darkly. Part of a past that Jack wanted gone. (And seeing another man with the same face was still painfully unsettling.) 

But Buffy... Buffy was something else.

To say that Ianto was deeply intrigued by Buffy Summers would have been an understatement. If he’d ever had to invent a perfect girlfriend for Jack, someone like Buffy would have been it: Blonde, beautiful, smart, charming, self-assured, chatty - plus of course with her own brand of superpowers. Someone entirely the opposite of himself...

And yet her first words upon seeing Ianto hadn’t been surprise, but rather confirmation - as if Ianto was _precisely_ whom she’d expected to see Jack with. Of course Jack’s love of suits was hardly a secret, but bizarrely it had come across as a private joke of some sort.

Also, Buffy wasn’t possessive. She was clearly _fond_ of Jack, but there were no hard feelings lurking under the surface; not even a hint of a problematic parting that needed bridging, which was interesting, and quite unusual as far as Ianto knew. Plus, she had known Jack in a different place and with a different name. ‘Intriguing’ barely began covering it. If only he could think of a way of getting her alone...

Belatedly he realised that the conversations had shifted, and that Buffy and Jack were now talking - no, not talking, _arguing._

“All just labels, Buffy, I’ve told you that before,” Jack said, somewhat overbearingly, but the lady in question didn’t look at all convinced. Jack bit his lip, and surveyed his team musingly.

“OK. I’d say that everyone in this room originally identified as straight. Well apart from me, obviously. Now, hold a hand up if you’ve kissed someone of the same sex.”

Every single person apart from Buffy raised their hand. Jack smirked.

“Now keep your hand raised if you’ve also _slept_ with someone of the same sex. And liked it.”

Only Gwen lowered her hand.

Buffy’s eyes widened, and she shook her head at Jack.

“Oh my God... Are you like... _contagious_?”

Jack pulled a face.

“Well clearly not, or you’d not have objected so vocally to a simple threesome.”

At this Buffy’s face abruptly closed down.

“We do _not_ talk about that pretty soldier boy you macked on, remember?”

“ _Pilot_ , Buffy,” Jack gently admonished, and then couldn’t stop a smile from spreading across his face.

“Mmmm, Ermanno Mancini. I pulled a few strings when I got back - he’s now training to be an astronaut. Always wanted to see the stars...”

Owen made a dismissive sound, breaking Jack’s reverie.

“So that’s it - you want to get ahead in the world, screw bloody Captain Jack?”

Spike shot him an appreciative look, and Jack sighed.

“ _Didn’t_ sleep with him, sadly. Although if he ever comes to this country, I’ll have that threesome, come what may!”

He turned and grinned at Ianto, who could only blink in shock as everyone turned to look at him. Lowering his coffee cup he opened his mouth in order to attempt some kind of response, but Jack anticipated this, shooting him one of those private looks that always threatened to undo him.

“ _Trust_ me. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

On one level this question was so utterly ridiculous as to be laughable, and yet the immediacy of the memories it evoked - and the possibilities suddenly opened - caused him to immediately to close his mouth. 

“See?” Jack turned to Buffy. “ _Ianto_ is open-minded.”

“And I’m not?” she shot back.

“Buffy - you married a Victorian poet.”

“How the _hell_ -?” Spike asked, incredulous, and Jack looked at him with pity. 

But then the phone rang and Ianto left to answer it, missing the remainder of the conversation.

The phone call turned out to be... interesting. And one that most definitely demanded Jack’s attention. Thanking all his lucky stars, Ianto went back to the conference room, smoothing out his pleasure and covering it with impersonal concern.

“Sir, it’s...” he hesitated, considered their guests, “the Government. It would seem that someone finally read the letter you sent regarding ATMOS.”

Ianto waited, as he saw the other Torchwood members mentally wince as they remembered Jack’s reaction to hacking into UNIT’s report on the incident - the way it had taken almost a week before he’d stopped randomly shouting: _“Sontarans! They nearly let Sontarans murder the whole planet!”_ and how - after everyone had repeatedly pointed out to him that running off to London and _literally_ banging people’s heads together wouldn’t do much good - he had spent most of the following week working on one of the most irate and wrathful letters Ianto had ever seen, the gist of which had been: _‘What did I tell you_ , you idiotic, imbecile _morons_? Are you going to listen next time, or are you just going to let the aliens waltz in and _kill everyone_? Again?’ 

That same glint of righteous fury reappeared in Jack’s eyes, and he squared his shoulders.

“Better take it.”

Casting a glance at Buffy and Spike, he stopped momentarily.

“By the way - do you ever have problems with Whitehall?”

“I don’t _think_ so,” Buffy said, a little thrown, and Jack smiled grimly. “I bet your Giles can do the politeness thing. Doesn’t work for me I’m afraid.”

He left, and Spike, whose interest was now piqued, turned to Owen.

“You know what the deal was with ATMOS? Had our magical department turn them upside down and inside out, ‘cause we were worried ‘bout something mystical, but we turned up zilch.”

As Owen with great relish began relaying yet more highly classified information - and Tosh simultaneously said, “You have a _magical_ department?” - Ianto politely caught Buffy’s attention.

“Excuse me - but would you like me to have a look at the stain?”

She looked up, smiling.

“...I’d forgotten about that. Thank you, yes.”

“Please follow me.”

He led her out into the kitchen, generally the best place for these things, and - when she handed him the coat - had a closer look. It was clearly very new, and a delicate shade of off-white. The blueish tint it now had stood out rather sharply, but he’d seen worse.

“Oh yes, I think I can get that out.”

“Do you have anything that gets blood out?” she asked hopefully, and he paused.

“Not completely, no. With Jack I just tend to have lots of spare clothes around.”

Reaching for the first bottle, she caught his eyes and smiled wickedly.

“So, now we are alone, let’s do the gossiping thing, yeah? You tell me all about ‘Captain Jack Harkness’ and I’ll tell you everything about The Immortal - deal?”

“You speak of them as if they’re different people,” he said lightly, but instead of laughing, Buffy’s face turned speculative, and she crossed her arms and leaned against the worktop.

“I think they are. Kinda. I mean, of course he’s just _him_ , but still he’s... different.”

“What do you mean ‘different’?” Ianto asked carefully, as he applied the dissolvent. 

“Just...” she looked around, hesitated. “It’s so dark down here. He must be suffocating from lack of sunlight. Although this place does explain why he was so comfortable in the catacombs, I guess...”

At Ianto’s look she explained further.

“When I think about him I always remember the sun. Everything was so bright and... magical when he was around.”

Ianto stared, only belatedly realising that he’d let his mouth fall open. Trying to regain his equilibrium, he half-coughed coughing and asked:

“Do you... want to elaborate on that?”

“Oh yeah.” She smiled, somewhat wistfully. “The Immortal... The Immortal is basically a Living Legend. No one knows who or what he is, or where he came from, and he’s pretty much everyone’s friend - but he still has this reputation of being scarily powerful, and trust me, that doesn’t come from nowhere. You see - he always wins!” 

Ianto studied her gravely.

“He always wins?”

She nodded.

“Sounds too good to be true, doesn’t it? I totally thought he might be evil when we first met, but then... OK, this sounds completely macabre, but we ended up bonding over coming back from the dead.”

At the look on Ianto’s face, she smiled wryly.

“I’ve died. Twice. Well the first time I drowned and one of my friends brought me back with CPR. But the second time... the second time I was _dead_ dead, for a few months, until my friends brought me back with magic. I can’t imagine how The Immortal copes with doing that over and over and over again. Waking up and knowing that it’ll never be over. That the fight keeps going on and you can’t stop.”

She shuddered, but then - hearing Spike’s voice - began smiling.

“Although that’s what led me to Spike. Living was... so unbelievably hard, and I didn’t know how to cope. And I was sure that I hated him, but even so the only time I felt anything other than pain was when-”

She bit her lip, obviously feeling that she’d shared too much, but Ianto had to hold onto the work top to steady himself as the words sank in. Taking a deep calming breath he hoped that his voice wasn’t too shaky. And even so he couldn’t find the right words.

“I never thought anyone else- that anyone-”

She tilted her head, eyes full of understanding.

“You too, huh?”

He nodded, feeling that he probably needed to give her some kind of explanation. 

“I... lost my fiancée. She... Jack killed her. She wasn’t human anymore, but... she was the one thing I had lived for. He _destroyed_ her, and still... still I went to him to forget.”

She reached out, laid her hand on top of his. 

“Hey, I understand. And honestly, I think that immortal sex gods should be available on the NHS for all cases of depression and loss. Even if you sometimes hate them.”

“Would be nice,” he said, trying to steady his voice, and she smiled.

“It’ll get better. Trust me.” 

“Thank you,” he said gravely, and she shrugged.

“Hey, people like us have got to stick together. And go on - spill the beans. Who is he really? Do you know where he’s from?”

He thought for a moment.

“Well, I know that the _real_ Captain Jack Harkness was an RAF pilot during the second world war, who was shot down by the Germans and our Jack stole his name. As for who he is and where he’s from...”

He let the sentence hang and Buffy studied him expectantly.

“He’s a time traveller from the 51st Century. Accidentally got stuck on Earth in the 19th Century, and then lived through the 20th before he could get away again.”

(But he’s here for good now, he wanted to add. Because of me. Us.)

Buffy became very thoughtful, her eyes unfocussing.

“That... that makes a lot of sense. Huh.”

Figured that she’d take it in her stride, not even blinking. And she hadn’t asked about the immortality...

“He was originally a ‘Time Agent’ - I’m not quite sure what that entailed, but it was something not entirely unlike what we do. Just with time travel.”

“Hey kids!” The American vowels broke their quiet little scene, “having fun gossiping?”

“Yes we are!” Buffy answered immediately. “And why did you never say that you were from the future? That explains _so much_!”

Jack watched her, that impenetrable look in his eyes once more.

“Not part of that world.”

She rolled her eyes and turned to Ianto.

“See? He’s all... compartmentalised. A different face for everyone.”

Seeing that Jack’s face had gone completely blank, she reached out, patting his arm.

“Hey I don’t blame you. And remember, I dated _Angel_! Comparatively you’re an oversharer.”

He smiled again, and took her hand.

“I was actually wondering if I could have a word in private?”

“Um, sure,” she said, and Ianto confirmed that he’d be a few more minutes working on the coat. It would take a good while to process what he’d been told.

***

Once in ‘Jack’s’ office, Buffy wasn’t quite sure what to say or do. Bonding with Ianto had been easy, but this... She didn’t know how to deal with the man in front of her.

But when he sat down in his chair, she shoved some papers aside and made herself comfortable on the desk. Just like in Rome. Except his office in Rome was large and spacious, furnished with priceless antiques, and the sun always seemed to shine, lighting up the beautiful portrait on the wall. This place was dark and cramped and worn down.

“You seem to be doing better...” She finally said, and he nodded. 

“I am. I... found my hero. He couldn’t fix me, but I know what I am now, and why.”

She wondered how long he’d wanted to share that information, and smiled. 

“I’m glad. And... what are you then?”

He tilted his head.

“Have you ever tried to do a locator spell to find me?”

“A few times...”

He leaned forwards, curious.

“What happened?”

“They always went kablooey - the map burned every time. Well more like _blew up_.”

He chuckled.

“I thought that might be the case. You see, I’m a fact. A fixed point in time and space. Trying to find me with a spell would be like... trying to locate pi!”

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“I shall look for pie next time instead then? Seriously though - you’re OK?”

“I’m OK. And I’ve got Torchwood and my team and my mission. Finally learning to appreciate what I’ve got - not quite like your happily ever after, but it’s... enough. More than I deserve, probably.”

She laughed, and somewhere had visions of green grass on the other side of a fence.

“You think Spike and I are ‘happily ever after’? Oh _god_ you should have seen us 4 years ago... Let’s just say that he didn’t respond very well to the transition to humanity. I have no idea how many times I almost walked out. I still get the urge now on a bad day. He was a vampire for so long, he... forgot how to be human...”

And there it was, the painful undercurrent that they’d yet to banish - it was far too easy to see only what had been lost, and forget the gains... No one had ever told her that Happily Ever After would be so much _work_. But really, she shouldn’t be crying on The Immortal’s shoulder over her marital problems - not that he’d mind, but she had made her choice, and she would never regret it. 

_(Love ... give ... forgive. Risk the pain. It is your nature. Love will bring you to your gift.)_

Great, now she was getting lost in her mind. She shrugged, knowing that he’d understand.

“Basically we’re the most dysfunctional thing, like, ever.”

The Immortal raised an eyebrow.

”Did he call you a monster and hold a gun to your head?”

“No...”

“Still ahead.”

She couldn’t help smiling then.

“I’ve missed conversations like this.”

“Me too...”

He reached out, took her hand and just held it for a long moment.

"I can't explain what it means, seeing you again. I-"

He swallowed against some strong emotion, and for a second she was frozen with fear that he was going to declare his undying love for her... 

But then he slowly looked up, catching her eyes, and she felt the tug of some strong memory that she couldn’t quite place.

"Sorry. It’s too complicated. And it doesn’t matter anyway, not now. But I am happy that you’re happy. More than you can imagine.”

She marvelled at how he could be simultaneously opening his heart, and the same time be excessively evasive and secretive. 

“And...” he continued, “I never got to say thank you. For everything.”

Watching him she remembered glorious sunlit days and nights bathed in silver; kisses and caresses that chased away the dark shadows in her mind; gentle words bearing understanding, not judgement - and she leaned forward and kissed him as if the world was ending. (Which it might very well be, for all she knew.)

Her Immortal... Her very own Immortal, who’d only ever been on loan.

***

It wasn’t until that evening, long after they’d said their proper goodbyes and were on the train back to London, that Buffy was able to place the look that had been in his eyes.

It had said: _‘Every night I save you.’_

She wondered what had happened to him. What on earth could have made _that_ particular look enter his eyes.

When Spike interrupted her thoughts with a cutting remark about how anyone who kept a pterodactyl the size of a small car as a pet clearly had something to make up for, she shot him a look so fierce it shut him up for a whole fifteen minutes.

***

“Owen?”

The doctor in question held a bundle of blood stained tissues aloft with a triumphant smile, which Jack more than matched.

“Excellent. Now, lets go work some DNA magic - you’ve still got the blood sample from Capt John I take it?”

Owen nodded and set off towards the medical bay.

“You really think...” Gwen began, and Jack nodded, eyes bright. 

“Could be.”

As the computer screen flashed up a little later, confirming the relationship between the two samples, Jack almost did a little victory dance. 

“What did I say? Spatial genetic multiplicity! Three thousand years is _nothing_!”

Owen looked less impressed.

“You mean Mr Former Vampire is going to be a daddy? _That’ll_ turn out well.”

“Oh he’ll be _brilliant_ ,” Jack cooed, already imagining Buffy surrounded by scores of adorably gorgeous children. “Used to be a poet, like I said. All the gruffness is just a facade - at heart he’s a romantic through and through. And it’s _exactly_ what she needs... Now, let’s have a look and see what Mothercare has in the way of old fashioned prams.”

They left him to it.

***

_A week later._

It was late, and the Hub was dark since everyone had gone home. Well, everyone except Ianto and Jack. 

Jack, smiling, walked towards his office where he found his ‘butler’ engaged in the very un-butlery position of sitting in Jack’s chair with his feet on Jack’s desk, absorbed in a book. 

It wasn’t until Jack saw the cover that his mood suddenly darkened.

“Ianto... Can I ask where you found that book?”

The young man made a great show of being torn out of his reading.

“What? Oh sorry. Fascinating stuff, this. If I didn’t know better I’d say it was a guide to 51st Century morality and attitudes... But that would be ridiculous.”

Leaning forward with one hand on the desk and another on the back of the chair Jack swivelled the chair round so he was face to face with Ianto.

“How did you find it?”

Ianto’s face was still perfectly calm.

“Turns out that if you google ‘The Immortal’ the only thing you get is a sponsored link to Amazon for this book. It’s... very strange. Almost as if someone didn’t want to be found.”

“Someone doesn’t.”

“But how do you do it?” Ianto was now tilting his head, studying Jack intently. “It’s not that it’s hidden, there is quite literally _nothing_ on the whole internet about ‘The Immortal’.”

“Intelligent virus,” Jack replied. “Set it loose back when the internet was in its infancy. It goes around eating anything to do with that life. I check up on it occasionally, but it seems to be doing fine.”

“Clever.”

“Thank you.”

“Although...” Ianto hesitated. “I found a chat forum on a site called ‘Demons Demons Demons’... I tried to ask if anyone knew anything about someone called The Immortal, but the only one who knew anything was all cloak-and-daggers. Before the page deleted itself, that is.”

“What was his name?” Jack asked slowly.

“Called himself ‘RomeWatcher’ I think...”

Jack’s eyes narrowed.

“Get out of my chair. I need to terrify a nerd.”

Seconds later he’d brought up his Immortal e-mail account, located Andrew’s current e-mail address, and started writing.

_Andrew Wells._

_Is this really how you repay me for all I’ve done for you?_

_(The space ship was a decoy, but it *was* alien, from the planet Raxicoricofallapatorious. I can send you photos of it, if you like, from after it was dredged out of the Thames.)_

_However. If I *ever* find you talking about me *anywhere*, online or not, I will take you on a tour of The Room of Pain, giving you a *personal* demonstration of each implement._

_This e-mail will self-destruct. If you try to find me, I will delete your whole hardrive, understood?_

_The Immortal  
x_

“A kiss?” Ianto asked, and Jack grinned. 

“Just a little something to either freak him out, or keep the flame alive.”

Ianto lifted an eyebrow.

“Should I ask?”

“What makes you think I’ll answer?”

“Because you’re an inveterate showoff.”

With a wolfish grin, Jack went on to prove the truth of this statement. 

He didn’t answer the question, however, and Ianto wondered if he’d ever find out anything more about Jack’s elusive alias, beyond what basic information he’d seen fit to share. The book had been no help at all, filled as it was with tall tales and ridiculous fabrications, and Ianto despaired at ever managing to uncover more than a snippet of the man he had built his life around. 

But then Jack’s past came back to haunt them all, leaving a deadly and bloody trail, and for a while Ianto lost all interest in knowing more.


	3. Chapter 3

  


_Ilona: I have had dealings with The Immortal many times, and I must say that the outcome is always... most satisfactory._  
~

_Servant: His benevolence The Immortal wishes to convey his regrets at having detained you, but your recent actions against his concerns merited stiff reprimand._

**Cardiff, July 2008**

“Jack? Take a holiday.”

“Gwen, I can’t-”

“Yes you can. I’ve talked to Mickey - he’s more than happy to come and help out and UNIT have promised me people too. And I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that I managed to look after things _perfectly_ well back when you ran off. So. Take Ianto, book a holiday, and _go!_ For _his_ sake, if not yours.”

Watching the discussion from the shadows, Ianto easily caught the swift, guilty look that flickered across Jack’s face. The loss of Tosh and Owen was still raw within them all, and Jack... Ianto wasn’t sure how to deal with him. It was more than his brother’s vengeance, and the grief. He seemed bowed down, older than before, often getting lost in thought or forgetting where he was. Ianto had an unshakeable feeling of being immensely superfluous, unable as he was to make up for those now gone.

“I’ll think about it,” Jack finally said, and Gwen shot him a look that quite clearly said that she wasn’t going to give up until she’d won.

Later on, when Ianto brought her a cup of tea, he quietly murmured a thank you. 

She took the tea, blew on it, took a sip, and then sighed.

“Sorry that I used you as leverage, but he _needs_ to get away from here. He’s brooding, and it’s not healthy. For any of us. And-” 

A sudden mischievous smile appeared on her face, “You could both come back with tans, yeah? That’d be more appealing than this pale underground look you’ve got going on!”

He smiled back, and picked up the light tray. Too few cups on it now...

Yes, he needed to get away too. He’d been dreaming of Torchwood One recently - metal nightmare visions ripping his world to shreds over and over again.

That night, long after Gwen had left, Jack called him into his office, where he had been busy for hours. Ianto sat down on the desk, waiting, since he knew the look in Jack’s eyes. He had _plans._

“Ianto... how would you like to go to Rome?”

He looked up sharply. _Rome?_ Rome meant... the possible unlocking of secrets. Barely managing to keep his voice neutral, he replied:

“I hear it is a very pleasant city.”

Jack grinned, and handed over a folder.

“We’ll be leaving the day after tomorrow. In here you’ll find tickets, passport - everything you need.”

Unsure of the look in Jack’s eyes he opened the folder, extracting the passport and turning to the last page.

“My name is ‘Trystan’ Jones?”

Jack nodded. “Also, you’re a Junior Watcher who is currently writing a thesis on Weevils.”

“How exciting.”

A swift shadow crossed Jack’s face, but then it was gone, and he said:

“That’s the thing about aliases, they need to be thorough. Last time I went I had a hell of a time balancing two different identities, and I’m not in the mood for that now. I’m trusting you to be able to keep this up. After all, you have some... _experience_ in duplicity.” 

A swift glance, that could be either a warning or a token of admiration.

“So go home and get used to being Trystan - and remember to pack lots of shorts and Hawaiian shirts.”

Ianto didn’t favour this with an answer other than a pointedly raised eyebrow.

Jack tilted his head.

“OK, so I don’t think I’ve ever met a Watcher wearing one. Just aim for smart-casual. And no ties! Really you don’t need to pack much, I’ve got an extremely well stocked wardrobe.”

Ianto nodded, feeling something like excitement beginning to flicker throughout his veins. Jack hadn’t said so outright, but they’d be going to his other home - to whatever life he’d lived when he met Buffy. A whole different world...

***

When he turned up at the airport - after a day spent frantically trying to get everything in as much order as he could, and leaving Gwen about twenty million notes - it took him a good moment to locate Jack.

When he finally spotted him, he realised that he’d managed to colour-code him in his mind - Jack was supposed to be military blue. The Jack he found resting on an airport seat was... _different._

(Just like Buffy had said. And suddenly a whole new set of nerves kicked in. Just how different was ‘different’? He was being given a ticket into a whole new life - a side Jack had never showed to anyone at Torchwood. But what did that _mean_?)

This new Jack - or ‘The Immortal’ as he supposed he needed to think of him now - was wearing a white shirt, top button undone, and black, perfectly pressed trousers. On his feet were expensive-looking black Italian shoes and on his wrist a golden watch. And there was no sign of the wrist strap.

On the seat beside him was a briefcase, a tan jacket thrown on top, and Ianto felt a deep sigh of relief to see at least one thing he recognised. 

Still - Jack looked like a CEO. Or a millionaire. Billionaire, even. His traditional World War 2 look placed him out of time; a person deliberately out of sync with the contemporary world. This new look was... modern and yet classic. Movie star, maybe. Someone who should have a girl like Buffy on their arm.

What the hell was Ianto doing here?

Slowly making his way over to his unfamiliar boss, Ianto silently thanked god that he’d not opted for jeans - he’d have looked like a rent boy next to Jack’s understated wealth otherwise. And the discomfort he felt was palpable enough as it was...

Then Jack looked up, and Ianto remembered that it wasn’t about himself at all.

***

Flying first class was quite a treat, and as Jack began to relax Ianto carefully asked about Italy. Jack smiled lazily, sipping his drink.

“Mmmm, Italy. Love it. Would spend my whole life there, if I could. And the Italians... probably best in small doses. Although we had an Italian Torchwood agent once...”

His voice trailed off, but from the bittersweet smile on his lips Ianto could fill in the blanks easily enough, quietly wondering just how many Torchwood agents Jack had slept with through the years. 

The flight itself was uneventful, and their changeover in Paris went without a hitch. Jack of course flirted outrageously with the stewards and stewardesses, but it wasn’t until they arrived at Rome’s Fiumicino airport that Ianto began seeing a tangible change in Jack, the clothes apart.

As they stepped out of the airport Jack stopped, closed his eyes and stood perfectly still for almost a minute. Ianto wasn’t sure whether to do anything, but, just as he’d made up his mind to talk, Jack opened his eyes again, sighing deeply.

“Just need to soak up the warmth every time I come. Reset things. I sometimes wonder how I stay alive in Cardiff, considering how cold it is. I wasn’t built for rain...”

Remembering Buffy’s words, Ianto silently nodded, and then Jack started walking off to the taxi rank.

“I usually have one of the servants pick me up,” he said casually, “but I thought it’d be fun to arrive unannounced for once. See what they get up to when I’m not around. Oh Francesca is going to tell me off like nobody’s business, just wait...”

He winked at Ianto, possibly forgetting that he hadn’t told him who Francesca was. Apprehension now growing by the minute, Ianto didn’t answer.

“Immortal’s house!” Jack announced as they took their seats in the back of the taxi, and the young driver looked at him perplexed.

“Who?’

Jack’s face was a study in disbelief. Then followed a torrent of Italian, entirely too fast for Ianto to even begin to follow; but the driver looked suitably chastised, and soon enough Jack mellowed and had charmed the young man the way he always did. 

After a few minutes he turned back to Ianto.

“Four hundred years’ plus of history, and he doesn’t know me. Young people!” Jack muttered, shaking his head, and then - a sudden mischievous look in his eyes - leaned forward again.

Moments later he’d somehow managed to get the driver to call up his grandmother - speaker phone was a handy thing - and Jack was apparently making an elderly lady have a heart attack...

(“Oh the Fifties, Ianto... Rome in the Fifties. Really wish I could show you.”)

After a long journey - during which Jack never missed an opportunity to point out landmarks, especially if he’d had sex there - they finally arrived at their destination. Ianto vaguely remembered Buffy saying something about a mansion, but even so he had to stop his jaw from dropping. The house was _enormous_... Old and ornate and beautiful, it looked like it should have the Italian equivalent of a National Trust emblem on the front. _This_ was Jack’s house? 

As he was trying to wrap his head around this new revelation, Jack paid the cab driver and walked up to the front door with only a swift ‘Come long!’ over his shoulder. There was a giant lock, which Jack ignored, instead opening a metallic box on the side and carefully typing in numbers, and after a second it flipped open it to reveal a finger print scanner. 

“Installed this years ago,” he remarked. “Keys are awkward to carry around.”

Ianto only nodded as the ancient door swung open and revealed a huge hallway. If possible the interior was even more opulent than the exterior suggested. Having been instructed to just drop his bags on the floor (the staff would apparently sort them out), he mutely followed Jack around an impromptu tour of the house, trying very hard not to pinch himself to check whether he was still awake. It felt like walking around a film set.

The furniture was antique and exquisite, the floors polished marble, and the walls covered in priceless artwork - although most of it certainly reflected Jack’s taste. 

And if Ianto had still had any doubt about Jack’s ownership, it swiftly showed itself in his casual inspection - he remarked with satisfaction that the dust had been kept to a minimum, noticed where changes had been made to the decor or furnishings, and happily drew brocade curtains so Ianto could admire the view. Plus he kept up a stream of whimsical remarks, each referencing some past occurrence, of which Ianto swiftly lost track; and it seemed as if with each remembered detail, Jack changed a little more. Ianto wasn’t sure whether to feel excited or worried.

When they got to the ballroom - crystal chandeliers wrapped in gossamer sheets silently hovering above them, as if dreaming of fairy tales from times past - Jack wrapped an arm around Ianto and danced a few steps, eyes bright and happy. And for a moment Ianto wasn’t listening, because - for the first time since those bombs had blown up - the dark, grim shadows in Jack’s eyes were missing.

“Sorry?” he asked after a moment, and Jack tilted his head.

“I said, when Buffy was here I threw a huge ball for her. Would you like me to do the same for you? She was Cinderella, and I could easily have her dress altered...”

Disentangling himself, Ianto curtly shook his head, wishing to smile, yet knowing it would be fatal.

“I’m afraid I have to decline.”

Then he frowned.

“A ‘huge’ ball? You mean you have... friends here?”

Jack shrugged. 

“The Immortal is friends with everyone. Or rather, everyone is friends with him. Can’t afford to have enemies.”

“Do you often speak of yourself in the third person?” Ianto asked, but Jack just laughed, and Ianto could feel his breath catch. Buffy had been right - this place was downright _magical_.

“Come, let me show you something.”

Walking up the giant staircase Jack swiftly made his way along softly carpeted corridors, before throwing open a door.

Cautiously Ianto walked through, and then stopped, staring at the enormous portrait that dominated the wall opposite. 

It was Jack, and yet... it wasn’t. He frowned, trying to work out what was bothering him. The clothes, of course, were vastly different - puffy shirt and tight trousers - and the mere fact that it was a _painting_ lent it an otherworldly air. 

Slowly he walked closer. The painting was definitely genuine. He turned to Jack.

“That is The Immortal,” Jack said, face unreadable. “He is who I am when I need... when I need to not be Jack. This place is _safe_.”

Ianto slowly nodded, turning back to the picture. 

“I understand.”

It was the face, he finally decided. Jack’s face was as familiar to him as his own, and yet the man in the painting looked like a stranger, the smile on his face like Mona Lisa’s in its zen-like calm. A facade, then, or costume like the World War 2 uniform, for people to see... an image to go with the stories.

Then Jack’s eyes lit up again.

“Come! You need to se the bedroom!”

The bedroom (like everything else) turned out to be enormous, and was dominated by a large and elaborate four poster bed. It could not, in any way, shape or form, have been more different from Jack’s tiny, cramped hole under Torchwood.

Then suddenly there was a yell from downstairs. Ianto couldn’t make out anything except ‘Immortal’ and Jack laughed again.

“Here comes my telling off! And remember - don’t call me Jack!”

Like a small boy, delighted by a naughty prank and utterly unconcerned about any possible punishment, he skipped off, and Ianto followed, his pleasure in Jack’s new-found joy now fighting with the previous nervousness which was abruptly rearing its head.

Jack had mentioned his staff, but only in passing, and Ianto wasn’t sure what to expect. Except Jack was clearly fond of them - and yet had never spoken a word about them. How many more secrets did he have?

As he started cautiously walking down the stairs he saw Jack wrapped up in a hug from a tiny, but formidable-looking, elderly Italian woman, who sounded as if she was scolding and welcoming simultaneously.

Around them was a small group of people, including an attractive young man, a small girl - maybe ten years old - and a very distinguished looking elderly gentleman.

As Jack detangled himself, he noticed that people’s attention had shifted and turned to Ianto, throwing his arm out towards him, beaming.

“Everyone - this is Trystan Jones. Trystan - this is the Esposito family, who have been with me since the beginning.” 

The elderly woman - Francesca, was it? - looked from Jack to Ianto and back again.

“Immortal? Can it be...?”

Jack smiled softly.

“Well you’ve been telling me for years to find someone. I finally did. And trust me, he looks after me as well as all of you put together.”

Francesca clasped her hands together, exclaiming loudly and, as soon as Ianto had descended the stairs, threw her arms around him, before immediately pushing him away, studying him.

“Ah but Immortal, he is a handsome boy! Always with the pretty faces. But if you say he is good for you-”

“ _Very_ good,” Jack said, proudly. “He tells me off as much as you do.”

“Oh it makes me happy. Immortal, you have an old woman joyful before her final rest.”

Then there were a whole host of introductions before Francesca decided that food was necessary, since clearly both Ianto and Jack looked like they’d not been fed properly for months. Plus they were as pale as ghosts! Had they been living underground?

“Of course!” Jack replied, and Francesca swatted him for not taking her seriously. Ianto, on the other hand, began wondering how many things he’d dismissed, that might have been true after all. He needed to have another look at that book...

The servants scattered however, and Jack led Ianto in to a cosy sitting room.

“You know, I love many things about this place, but I think that maybe I love the food the most. If I could get them to deliver to Cardiff...”

Grief sprang to the surface again as he remembered the reason for their trip, but before Ianto could react he’d shaken it off.

“Try to forget that world if you can. Otherwise being here is too hard.”

The dinner as indeed superb, the vine vintage, the different courses better than what even the most expensive restaurants in Cardiff offered, the service impeccable, and Ianto yet again felt like he was in a dream. Jack, of course, took it all in his stride, perfectly pleasant to the staff and yet clearly prone to taking them for granted. Ianto noticed, but didn’t say anything. But it made sense of a lot, especially the way Jack sometimes didn’t seem to notice him.

That night, as Jack was showing off his wardrobe (it filled a room about the size of Ianto’s flat), and trying to talk Ianto into a pair of silk pyjamas, Ianto nervously cleared his throat.

“This is all... very couple-y,” he offered cautiously, and Jack shrugged.

“You’re The Immortal’s ragazzo. Be honoured, you’re in prestigious company.”

“Like Buffy?”

“Like Buffy.”

Ianto nodded. He’d never expected to feel on firmer ground here than back in Cardiff, but having an established role made things a lot simpler: He was The Immortal’s ‘ragazzo’. 

But he was Jack’s... what? 

Falling into the impossibly comfortable bed, he wondered if this was how Jack felt all the time, his head trying to exist in several different realities simultaneously.

***

The next day they started sightseeing. Jack, as Ianto had suspected, was a tour guide of apparently limitless knowledge, although he constantly lapsed into anecdotes. Not that Ianto minded. Every story - no matter how frivolous, and most of them were pure fluff - was yet another piece of information, another part of the endless puzzle that was Jack.

Plus the sun was shining hotly, and they were actually in Rome and Jack was relaxing.

A sudden cry of ‘Immortale’ made him tense however - although it was only for the briefest second - and then he turned, smiling widely at the extremely well-endowed woman walking towards them in vertiginous heels.

“Ah Immortal, I do not believe it! How have you been? I have missed your beautiful face!”

She had a very pronounced Italian accent, and Jack laughed as she pulled him into a hug and kissed him on both cheeks.

“I’m well as always, Ilona. And you?”

“I am _always_ good, you know that. Except for when I am very bad, of course. But who is this? Ah but _such_ a handsome boy!”

She reached out and stroked Ianto’s face, and he could feel himself bristling.

Jack smirked.

“Gorgeous, isn’t he? Junior Watcher. Spotted him in the Council and decided to... expand his horizon a little. Don’t worry Trystan, Ilona doesn’t bite. Not unless you ask very nicely.”

He lifted an eyebrow, and Ilona laughed, playfully slapping him.

“Immortal, you never change. Corrupting the young people, ah it is wonderful! Lucky you are so pretty...”

“Actually,” Jack said, voice dropping, “would you mind giving me a moment in private?”

He took her elbow and led her away, leaving Ianto feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

Jack and Ilona were clearly old friends, and their private chat one full of little nods and searching looks and carefully elaborated points. Memories of Capt John began to surface, and Ianto wished he had his gun handy. Just in case. 

Finally however they parted, Jack kissing Ilona’s hand with much elaboration before sauntering back to Ianto, wrapping his arm around Ianto’s middle as if he was some kind of accessory and quietly murmuring ‘Just walk’.

Ianto did as he was told, and it wasn’t until several streets later that Jack finally relaxed.

“So, what was that?” he asked, and Jack smiled tightly.

“Ilona Costa Bianci. The CEO of Wolfram & Hart - an evil law firm.”

The look on Ianto’s face must have spoken volumes, because Jack rolled his eyes.

“I know. But when I say evil, I mean it quite literally.”

Ianto still wasn’t quite buying it.

”What? They sold their soul to the devil?”

Jack smiled a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“The devil is a little man, or so they tell me. Oh! Have I ever mentioned that he built a robot?”

Christ, the man could derail for Britain.

“ _Ilona_. You are obviously old friends...”

“Oh yes,” Jack sighed. “Very old. Have seen her work her way up the ranks from junior barrister to where she is now. Seducing, back stabbing and murdering to get ahead. She became CEO by literally blowing up the old offices, destroying her opposition.”

Ianto eyed him warily. 

“Really.”

“Yes really. Trust me - behind every evil dictator and pogrom you’ll find a W&H lawyer, ready and willing to make sure their clients never get caught. Unfortunately I can’t afford them as enemies, hence the friendliness.”

“‘Friendliness’ is a bit of an understatement,” Ianto observed drily, and Jack chuckled.

“Well, I’d never have slept with her if I wasn’t immortal, _trust_ me. Comes in handy. Right now I just needed to find out what was happening - last I knew the whole firm was going belly-up. Not surprising since the Senior Partners are on a different plane, and suddenly got cut off. Ilona, of course, wasted no time in trying to take advantage of the situation, and she’s busy building her own little empire. But that’s not _my_ headache, thank god.”

Then they bought ice creams and Jack dragged him off to the Colosseum, and Ianto soon forgot all about unpleasant exes.

***

The following day turned out _very_ hot and proved too much for Ianto, Jack declaring him in danger of sunstroke. So they headed back to the villa shortly after lunch, Ianto wondering how Jack could be so utterly unbothered by the heat which lay as a blanket over everything.

Despite Ianto’s complaints that he just wanted to lie down, Jack decided that he needed something to drink immediately, and so they went in through the backdoor, which Ianto discovered led directly into a large, cosy, well used kitchen, its battered decor a sharp contrast to the rest of the house. 

But as they entered Jack stopped stock-still, and Ianto had to step sideways around him to see what had caught his attention so spectacularly.

At the ancient table in the middle of the room he saw the good looking young servant (Rico was it?), sharing a meal with a curly haired young man who looked to be in his late twenties. 

The servant had frozen, fork halfway to his mouth, and the other man turned, before going so pale that Ianto worried that he might faint.

“I-Immortal?” he said, voice faltering, and Jack smiled a strange little smile.

“Hello Andrew. How have you been?”

As Andrew tried to formulate an answer, Ianto - remembering a certain e-mail - slowly made the connection.

“Hang on - is he _that_ Andrew?”

Jack shot him a swift glance, and Ianto saw laughter bubbling behind his eyes - as well as a warning not to give the game away.

“Indeed he is. Trystan, allow me to introduce Andrew Wells, who goes by the name ‘RomeWatcher’ on certain internet forums, where he tries to divulge secrets he shouldn’t.”

“It wasn’t like that!” Andrew protested. “I was... I was just trying to explain that your book isn’t all fabrication.”

“And how would you know that?” Jack purred dangerously, slowly stepping forward, and Andrew once more looked as if he was making ready to make a run for the door.

Then Jack abruptly turned to the servant.

“Rico? You never mentioned you had a boyfriend.”

Rico bit his lip, eyes darting back and forth between Jack and Andrew.

“Andrew asked me not to tell, he said... he was in your blackest books.”

“Damn straight he is,” Jack said, by now standing at the end of the table, and then reached out, laying a hand on Rico's shoulder, his face suddenly soft and gentle.

“But you’re one of mine, and I want to know how you’re getting on, OK? I’m always here for you, you know that.”

Rico smiled, and Jack patted him on the back. Then he turned to Andrew again, eyes hardening.

“Andrew. If you break my boy’s heart, I’ll train some hellhounds to rip you to pieces, understood?”

“How... how do you know about...” Andrew stuttered, but Jack was already turning away, opening the fridge and getting out a bottle of water which he tossed to Ianto.

“C’mon Tryst!” he said, sauntering out of the kitchen, and Ianto felt a sudden sharp loathing for his new nickname, which combined with the headache and the unwelcome reminder of all of Jack’s nastier traits made him turn to Andrew.

“Well I would like to thank you for trying to help me.”

Andrew blinked.

“Hey wait - _you_ were the guy asking questions?”

Ianto nodded carefully (movement made his head feel like it was full of metal ball bearings) and took a sip of water.

“He’s not exactly an over sharer, so I wanted to get some info on my own. Sorry he’s taking it out on you.”

Jack had by now turned around, and was standing in the doorway, eyes narrowing.

“Don’t think he’s an innocent, Trystan, and this goes _much_ further back.”

Andrew, possibly by virtue of having an accomplice and thus feeling on firmer ground, straightened up.

“You used me to get info behind Buffy’s back, and then threatened me so I wouldn't tell anyone!”

“What a surprise,” Ianto remarked, “but his bark is worse than his bite. I shouldn’t worry about it.”

At his words Jack’s face clouded over, and he stalked over to Ianto, with a look in his eyes that didn’t bode well.

“Please allow me to explain something: You _really_ don’t know who The Immortal is, Mr Jones.”

His voice was smooth and dangerous, but Ianto didn’t flinch. The house and money was all very well, but there were limits to how much the clothes made the man. 

“With all due respect, _Sir_ , The Immortal is not the boss of me.”

He wasn’t entirely sure of the rules for the games they played here, but he wasn’t about to let Jack get away with just anything. What exactly could Jack do, after all? Jack was clearly pondering the same question.

“Tell me, Trystan, would _you_ like a personal tour of the Room of Pain?”

By a huge effort Ianto managed not to smirk, but they both knew that Jack had overplayed his hand quite considerably.

“By all means, sir - I’m sure it’d be very... _instructive_ ,” he replied, and with satisfaction noticed Jack’s near-invisible intake of breath, and the way his eyes flickered. (Jack’s First Rule: If in trouble, turn the conversation into sex. Worked _beautifully_ in reverse.)

For long seconds they just watched each other, and then Jack said, voice not quite even and mind clearly thoroughly preoccupied:

“You’re going to pay for this later!”

“Looking forward to it Sir,” Ianto responded, by now unable to stop a smile. 

(Jack’s punishments were always _exquisite_. Four poster bed... so many possibilities.) 

“Well we could start immediately...” Jack purred, and Ianto shook his head, then flinched against the abrupt pain.

“Headache, remember?”

“Well you know what the best thing for a headache is?” Jack asked with a wolfish smile.

“Aspirin,” Ianto said, then turned to the table.

“Nice meeting you Andrew, and all the best.”

Then he left in search of a good bed, and half wishing that he could have tied Jack up very thoroughly first, just to be assured some peace...

***

Apart from the unsettling experience of meeting Ilona, the holiday went well, and Ianto was appreciating the good things in life a great deal. And he understood what Buffy had meant... Everything _did_ seem bright and magical.

It was now the evening of the fifth day, and Ianto was beginning to rue their time coming to an end. They were in the middle of dinner, the second course having just been brought in, and the vast difference between these formal meals and their usual habit of sub-par takeaways, eaten with one hand whilst leaning on a work station, was nearly enough to make him cry. Of course he then felt guilty thinking about Gwen, but even so... 

(This place was dangerous. How did Jack resist getting lost in the fairy tale?)

The door opened, and Ianto looked up, wondering if it’d be yet another side dish, but only Vittore - the older, impeccable butler - appeared, empty handed, but making straight for Jack’s seat.

“Immortal? I am sorry to interrupt your meal, but there is a young American gentleman wishing to speak with you. We were hesitant to let him in, since he looks like he was in a fight, but he asked for sanctuary.”

Jack’s eyebrows rose.

“Sanctuary? Really? That’s not happened in... _decades_. Who is he?”

“He says his name is Donald Richardson. He...” a hesitation, and a ruffle of uncertainty in Vittore’s otherwise smooth exterior, “He claims to the the great-grandson of Venus.”

Rarely had Ianto seen such a complete change in Jack. The mild curiosity vanished, replaced by a look that Ianto couldn’t work out at all. Carefully laying down his utensils Jack stood up stiffly.

“Take me to him. I want to see who _dares_ come to my house using that name!”

Curiosity winning out over qualms Ianto got up, and Jack either didn’t mind or didn’t notice. Walking through the house until they reached the hallway they found a young man - about Ianto’s age - waiting for them there. A large bruise was spreading across his cheek, and he was clutching his side, in a way that might indicate a broken rib - and Ianto winced in sympathy.

“Who are you?” Jack demanded coldly.

“You The Immortal?” the man asked, and Jack nodded.

“I am he. I want to know what you want.”

“I... Look I came here on holiday, thought I’d try to look up my family. But then when I find some of them, they _attack_ me - I barely got away. So... I came here, cause I didn’t know where else to go. Was always told that you were the one who helped great grandmama and great grandpapa get married...”

“You are talking about Venus,” Jack said, voice still clipped down to nothing. “Why would you do that?”

Ianto silently wondered what this was. Clearly ‘Venus’ was the name of a person, not the goddess, but...

“She’s my great-grandma,” Donald replied, and Jack shook his head.

“She died, along with all of her family, in the Dresden bombings. Trust me, I know.”

Donald shook his head.

“Not everyone. My granddad ran away from home when he was 16 - went to America against his mother’s wishes just before the war began. Great grandma refused - or couldn’t - contact him, and then - then everyone died. But he passed down what he knew of her - how she’d been practically royalty, and how you’d been her benefactor...”

Jack suddenly looked like he was going to burst into tears.

“Show me your other face,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, and after a tiny hesitation Donald’s face changed - the features stayed mostly the same, but his skin turned blue-purple and mottled, and instead of hair he had short ridges along the top of his head. Ianto was ridiculously grateful that he was used to aliens.

Jack held a hand to his mouth.

“Oh god.”

Then he carefully reached out, tilting the other’s head so it’d catch the light better, a gentle smile on his face and actual tears in his eyes.

“You have her eyes... and I remember the pattern by the ears, that could only...”

He abruptly wrapped the young man up in a hug. 

“I thought I’d lost her, all of her, thank you, _thank_ you...”

Donald whimpered in pain, and Jack pulled away.

“Wait. Who did this?”

“Um... I said I wanted to find my family...”

Jack’s eyes grew. 

“The Diretto Clan? What the hell made you think that was a good idea?”

“My dad’s working on mapping out the family tree, and I thought-”

Jack watched him levelly.

“What _exactly_ did you say?”

”I showed them this,” Donald said, pulling out a rather torn document from a pocket.

Jack looked it over, and shook his head.

“And it never occurred to you that-” He sighed. “Your great grandparents married in great secret. He was from a much lower Clan than she, and I had all kind of schemes going on, making sure they could meet without anyone knowing a thing. I’m surprised you got out alive. Especially considering that you’ve now got human blood in there too...”

He stood still for a moment, studying Donald in silence, darkness growing in his eyes.

“They know about you now. This is going to end in a bloodbath, for you and all of your family.”

Donald’s face turned pale blue. “But I didn’t... What do we do?”

“We stop it,” Jack answered, grimly.

His eyes moved onto Ianto, still coldly calculating.

“Go upstairs and find a tweed jacket and a tie. Hurry.”

Ianto opened his mouth, and then closed it again, and did as he was told.

He heard more orders - something about Vittore fetching his ring and someone else to bring the car round, and ‘will _someone_ see that the kid gets some medical attention!’ - and a short while later found himself in a huge Bentley, being driven through the evening alongside a grim-faced Jack and a worried-looking Donald, the latter of whom was trying to apologise.

Jack shrugged it off. 

“Don’t worry about it. You were just lucky that I was in town. Otherwise...” 

His eyes flashed. “It’s been too long since I flexed my power. People are forgetting me. Time was, my name alone was enough to make people quake. Let’s see if we can remind them.”

(“He always wins”, Buffy was saying in Ianto’s memory...)

They arrived at a large, old, somewhat dilapidated building, which nonetheless still carried signs of its former glory. Jack strode out, not even looking behind him to check that the others were following.

There was a blue-skinned demon at the door, squeaking at the sight of them. Jack looked at him coolly.

“I’m The Immortal. Take me to your masters.”

The demon bowed and Jack followed it into the house, Ianto and Donald shooting each other worried glances. Donald leaned in.

“What the hell is he doing?”

Ianto shook his head. “Saving your life probably. Trust me, if anyone can do the impossible, it’s him.”

Donald nodded, but even so he paled as they reached the end of the dark corridor and tall doors were swung open, revealing a large hall, filled with demons, shouting and cheering.

“Donald, meet your family,” Jack remarked, then stepped forward. They were standing on a platform or stage, and a sudden hush spread as the demons realised they had visitors, everyone turning to look up at them. 

Ianto tried not to panic too much as he took in the medieval decor of the walls, which were festooned with weapons of every kind and description. The makers of the ‘Saw’ movies could spend about a century here...

Then an elderly demon - who, judging by his elaborate outfit, was probably the leader - stood up, carefully bowing. “Immortal. To what do we owe this honour?”

“You have been attacking my property.”

There was an outburst of anger and denial, but Jack didn’t move a muscle.

“Is there anyone here who was present at the dinner in my honour in 1923?”

Two very old demons, faded and wrinkly, stood up. Jack briefly acknowledged their presence.

“Good. I trust that your memory hasn’t gone the way of your looks. I saved the life of your leader, Baldassare. As a token of his gratitude he gave me his youngest daughter, Venus. Is this correct?”

They both nodded vigorously.

“Thank you. Because there seems to have been a misunderstanding. _This_ -”

Jack motioned for Donald to come forwards, “-is Venus’ great grandson. Whom you attacked!”

The room erupted again.

“He’s a bastard! A disgrace! He has human blood in his veins! He told us that Venus defiled herself with an Ano-Movic demon! This outrage will not be allowed to continue! All must be cleansed!”

Jack’s brow furrowed, and he lifted his hand, the silence abrupt.

“ _Enough_! Venus was _mine_ , and I could do with her as I pleased. And it pleased me that she get married, so she could have a husband to look after her, in the way she was used to. But let there be no mistake - she was still _mine_. Her offspring was _mine_. This man, and all his family, is _mine_. And _anyone_ who _in any way_ tries to destroy _my property_ will be dealt with swiftly and ruthlessly. I trust you have all heard of Baxter, the legendary demon hunter, the man who murdered Baldassare and many more of your people, and injured Venus herself? My revenge was _immediate_ , and he begged for mercy before the end. He got none. _Mark my words_. I am The Immortal, I play by my own rules, and _no one_ is my master. Anyone who lays so much as _a finger_ on this man will suffer worse than Baxter’s fate. Am I making myself clear?”

There was a long silence, then the elder at the front bowed again.

“Your words are clear and understood.”

“Good.”

Jack nodded towards Ianto.

“This is Trystan Jones of the Watcher’s Council. The Council has noted this contract and will, in my absence, see that it is kept, since apparently memories run short here, now.”

The leader scrambled to assure Jack that they would of course be following his words with utmost care, and Jack with a curt nod acknowledged his words.

“Good. I shall bid you farewell.”

He turned and swept out of the room, Ianto and Donald following, shooting each other incredulous looks. What had just happened?

Once they were back in the car, Donald - shifting uneasily to find a way to sit that didn’t hurt to much - cleared his throat, discomfort clear on his face.

“Um. Can I ask... That thing about...”

“Oh,” Jack said, shaking his head. “That was just speaking the only language they understand. You owe me nothing, but if they think you belong to me, they’ll leave you alone. And I’d advise you to do likewise.”

Then he suddenly relaxed, a look of wonder once more on his face.

“I can’t believe you’re actually here,” he said softly. “Come back with us, have some dinner, and then... I’ll tell you everything you could ever want to know about your heritage.”

Jack was as good as his word. After continuing their interrupted meal - during which Ianto found himself in the somewhat incongruous position of hostess - Donald’s nerves finally settled down, and Jack went away, returning with a dusty box.

“Never thought anyone would ever need this. Only kept it for myself...”

The box turned out to contain a photo album, a large collection of water colours and a thick bundle of letters.

“We used to write to each other. She told me all about her life and sent me photos of the children, plus of course descriptions of her porcelain collection. Oh she loved beautiful things... That’s why she moved to Dresden in the first place.”

Donald was clearly as overwhelmed as anyone on ‘Who Do You Think You Are?’ had ever been, reverently looking through the contents of the box.

They ended up sitting up half the night, Jack telling Donald everything he could remember of his great grandmother, and in the end inviting him to stay overnight, considering how late it was and the fact that he had more spare rooms than he knew what to do with.

***

Sitting in the large four poster bed, watching Jack as he silently undressed, Ianto couldn’t help turning the evening’s events over and over in his head.

(“Please allow me to explain something. You _really_ don’t know who The Immortal is, Mr Jones,” Jack’s voice echoed in his mind... Tonight he had seen this improbable statement more than proved true.)

Jack had walked into a lions den, slapped the lions around, made _them_ apologise and then walked back out, as they locked the cage of their own accord behind him. If he hadn’t been there himself, Ianto would have thought it a complete fabrication.

“Sir?” he said, as Jack slipped under the covers. “Can I ask... tonight. How did you do that?”

A small smile and half a shrug.

“Grandstanding. Using my name as a weapon. If you’ve been around long enough, and have enough of a reputation, all you need is a name.”

“And that reputation?” Ianto continued, a little nervously. “Baxter was it? What did you do to him?”

“A fate worse than death,” Jack replied lightly, and Ianto’s eyes narrowed. For a moment he thought Jack wasn’t going to elaborate, but then a grim smile curled the edges of his mouth.

“Baxter is the reason I know that you can’t kill someone with retcon. He had more than a full dose. And I made sure he knew what I was doing.”

As Ianto took this on board, Jack continued, voice still light even though his eyes were hard as flint.

“ _Then_ I put him on a boat to South America. Ought to have checked up on him, I know, but... I honestly never cared enough.”

At the expression of Ianto’s face he shot him a droll look.

“Oh don’t look like that. He deserved what he got. And _anyway_ , I never got round to complimenting you on the tweed jacket...”

Ianto stared at him, and it took a good few seconds before he managed to speak.

“Please don’t tell me that’s another one of your fetishes?”

Jack’s laughter was answer enough.

***

The next day they said goodbye to Donald, Jack insisting that he take the box with Venus’ letters.

“But I can’t- this is...” Donald protested, and Jack shook his head.

“This is _your_ history. Go home, tell your family what you’ve learned, and pass it down. It’ll do much more good out there in the world than sitting in my attic.”

Slowly Donald nodded, carefully taking the box from Jack’s outstretched hands and grasping it tightly.

“I can’t tell you what this means to me. I was brought up on the stories, but _you_...”

“Pretty fantastic?” Jack filled in, and Donald swallowed.

“’Fantastic’ doesn’t begin to cover it. You’re... I don’t know how to explain it. What you’ve done for me - for my whole family... We will never forget it.”

Jack reached out and held him by the shoulders.

“You gave be back something I thought I’d lost forever - like I said, you owe me nothing. Your great grandma was an incredible person. Be proud!”

***

And then suddenly it was the last day.

A touching goodbye to the servants. The flight back, the mood more subdued, but also lighter. The first sight of the water tower. A double hug from Gwen which was just _home_. And then... 

Screaming alarms and chaos and guns and fighting and moments of blind terror, followed by the silence of the dead. 

(It was as if they’d never been gone, and yet Ianto felt like he was in a dream.)

Bodies to dispose of. Coffee. Feeding the weevils. Reports and filing and an attempt to reorganise the mess. 

In Rome... In Rome the servants would by now be laying the table, evening sunlight filtering through the windows and colouring everything golden. Looking at the CCTV feed Ianto could tell that it had started raining above ground. The disorientation was so profound that for a long moment he could only stare at it.

He was brought out of his stasis by Gwen touching his hand.

“Missing the sun?” she asked, and he sighed.

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

Letting herself fall down on the sofa behind them, she patted the wellworn fabric. 

“C’mon, sit down and tell me all about it. The mess will still be there tomorrow, but I need some holiday stories _now_!”

Ianto looked up to see Jack watching them from across the Hub, a finger held across his lips as he winked. And suddenly something shifted in his mind. He didn’t know what this thing they had was called, had no clue where they were heading. But he knew what he was now, what he meant to Jack: Someone to help him carry his secrets. 

Smiling he sat down and turned to Gwen, ready to tell her everything he could and lie through his teeth about the rest.

Business as usual, really.

***

**A week later.**

“Ianto - did you study the Watcher’s Council like I asked?”

Ianto kept his eyes fixed on his screen.

“Yes sir.”

Jack, blithely ignoring the sigh in his voice, happily continued.

“Excellent. Do you think you can hack into their system?”

Deciding that eye contact couldn’t be avoided any longer, Ianto looked up from his work station and studied Jack for a long moment.

“Now you’re just being insulting.”

Jack grinned, and Ianto did his best not to be disconcerted by the darkness in his eyes, a darkness he now labelled as ‘The Immortal is on the war path!’

“Book me in to see Mr Rupert Giles next week. There is... some unfinished business I need to attend to.”

“Very well Sir,” Ianto replied, and began typing. 

The downside of being the confidant: Extra work, and plenty of it. Good thing the perks were off the scale.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this yesterday, just forgot! Sorry!

_Giles: She's a hero, you see. She's not like us.  
~  
Spike: And we just keep coming. But you can kill a hundred, a thousand, a thousand thousand and the enemies of Hell besides and all we need is for one of us - just one - sooner or later to have the thing we're all hoping for. One... good... day._

**August 2008, London, The Watcher’s Council**

“Mr Giles, there is a man to see you...”

Theresa’s voice sounded oddly flustered over the intercom, and Giles frowned. His secretary could generally be counted on to be more than calm at even the worst of times - not to mention the fact that she knew his diary inside and out, and relished reminding him of things he’d forgotten.

“What kind of man?”

“He says his name is Captain Jack Harkness, and that he’s from...” a brief pause, “Torchwood.”

“Never heard of it,” Giles replied, although it rang a distant bell somewhere. “Does he have an appointment?”

“He _does_...” Her voice went uncertain again, and Giles sighed.

“Fine. Just send him in.”

At least he’d managed to have a decent lunch today, and figured he might just as well take the bull by the horns. 

Surveying the comfortable, wood-panelled room and everything it represented, he couldn’t help smiling. The efforts to reinstate the Watcher’s Council hadn’t been smooth sailing by any stretch, but they were beginning to gain ground now, five years hard work paying off. They had freshly minted Watchers from the new Academy to support the Slayers, and the intense feeling of _‘Never Enough, Not Prepared’_ was slowly receding. And today, with the sun shining hotly outside his window, he felt ready to face the future, whatever - or whoever - it might bring.

When the door swung open, however, he immediately regretted his decision. In the doorway stood The Immortal, dressed in a World War 2 great coat and smiling widely.

“Hel- _lo_ Giles.”

“Why are you here?” Giles asked tightly, as The Immortal put a finger across his lips with a wink, closed the door, and uninvited took a seat on the other side of the wide mahogany desk.

“I have a favour to ask. Well two actually. And one to give in return.”

“Indeed,” Giles replied coolly. “And what’s with the name? I’m presuming it’s not real.”

The Immortal grinned, all white Hollywood teeth and flashiness. “No it’s not. But I _am_ a real Captain, so - if you wouldn’t mind - I’d prefer it if you could use that title? Working hard to keep my identities separate.”

Despite his instinctive dislike, Giles forced himself to recall the recent report Andrew had sent him about The Immortal intervening in a demon clan kerfuffle - a story which had been amply backed up by the half-demon at the heart of it. The young man had been yet another babbling Immortal admirer, but as far as Giles had been able to make out the whole thing had been done with no bloodshed, and for now he was ready to at least listen to what the other had to say. 

“Very well Captain. And what is... Torchwood? I can’t quite place it.”

“Canary Wharf was also known as Torchwood Tower. But the organisation was _actually_ set up by Queen Victoria herself to deal with alien and other unusual threats. They recruited me in 1899, and I’ve been running the Cardiff branch since 2000. Now what I was going to ask-”

Giles held up his hand.

“Sorry. I need to stop you right there - to be honest I’ve had enough of tall tales and mystery.”

The Immortal looked hurt.

“But I’ve been telling you the truth!”

Giles leaned back in his chair, studying the other man with quiet satisfaction. He was not about to waste his first chance of having the upper hand, and, smiling politely, he began setting forth his terms.

“If you want my help in any way, I insist on knowing who I am dealing with. I am afraid that the fact that Buffy trusts you isn’t enough for me to do the same. So - who are you? Where did you come from? How can you predict the future? I’ve had people research the legends of The Immortal, and it all ends in fairy tales and myths with nothing substantial of any kind - as if you sprung out of nowhere and spun tales to cover it up.”

“Not bad,” The Immortal replied, something like appreciation in his eyes. “That’s more or less what happened.”

Giles tilted his head.

“I’m presuming you didn’t come out of literally nowhere? Unless you came from a parallel dimension? Or, as Spike would have us believe, the worst hell imaginable...”

The Immortal studied him for a long time, then his eyes narrowed, and a small smile appeared in the corner of his mouth.

“Fair enough. I’ve never shown anyone this, and if I tell you this I insist it goes no further than this room. Can I borrow your computer?”

Slightly thrown Giles acquiesced, turning the screen towards the middle of the table and trying to make the keyboard and mouse cables stretch to the other side. He resented having this stuff in his office, and yet he knew he couldn’t be without them.

Then he noticed that The Immortal was apparently hacking into NASA.

“Can I ask-”

“No. Just hang on.”

A few more taps, a suppressed chuckle, and suddenly a starscape filled the screen, strange symbols - whether mathematical or alien in origin Giles couldn’t determine - displayed around the edges.

The Immortal stared at it in consternation, then frowned and tried to look at it sideways.

“They put it in upside down,” he said, surprise vying with petulance. “I give them a perfect Ettian star map, and they can’t tell up from down. Just a moment.”

“You... what?”

But The Immortal was typing again, and after a moment the stars all shifted and he smiled.

“The reason I was in Rome in 2004 was in order to dismantle a crashed space ship. NASA got a lot of stuff, including the star map. And... here we are. Now, to find Sol 3...”

A few strokes, and the solar system flashed up, as Giles tried to take on board this first revelation - and was forced to admit that the other man was clearly supremely good at covering things up. 

“You know this I take it?” The Immortal asked, and Giles shot him a droll look.

“Very well. Now if we zoom out...” action followed words, and the circles turned into a dot, surrounded by other dots. 

“Still with me? If we go further out, you can now see the whole galaxy, yes?”

Giles nodded, beginning to suspect he was being made a fool of, but unsure how to react.

“Now, if we move over here, and here, and here, and zoom back in.”

Another solar system, other planets.

“That planet there,” The Immortal pointed to the screen. “That’s where I was born. In 3000 years’ time; during the Third Great and Bountiful Human Empire.”

Giles looked from the screen to The Immortal’s face and back again.

“I’m a time traveller,” the other continued. “The reason I know that you eradicate vampires is because they don’t exist in the future. Nor do the Slayers. 21st Century everything changes. You change the world, and then you are forgotten, only remembered as fairy tales and myths. Much like me.”

Giles stared at the other man for a long moment, but The Immortal quite simply looked back, unmoving.

“So... you’re an alien?”

At this The Immortal chuckled.

“Mostly human, just... it’s a wide and wonderful universe.”

“I am not sure I-”

“If I wanted to lie, I could invent something much better, trust me.”

“But... why are you here?”

“Got stuck on Earth a long time ago. Needed to fill the time.”

“And the immortality?”

“Cosmic accident. And that’s all you’re getting. Now, can we talk?”

Giles studied the other man for a long moment. The answers had come readily enough, and well... the answers were certainly outrageous enough to take note of. But a time traveller...

“Tell me something from the future.”

The Immortal cocked an eyebrow.

“What would you like to know?”

For a moment Giles drew a blank, then he went with the obvious question.

“Who becomes the next President of America?”

“Obama. Can’t say I ever paid much attention to ancient history, but the first black president is something you tend to remember. Oh! And there’s a global financial crisis coming up soon. Like, in a month or two.” 

“Isn’t there always?”

“Few get in the history books.”

Realising that there was no way of actually verifying the veracity of the statements, Giles decided to leave the matter for the time being. Although - if the man spoke the truth... A global financial crisis? He’d better double check all their new investments. 

“Very well. Tell me what you want from me.”

The Immortal smiled lightly, making himself more comfortable in the chair. 

“Let’s go with the easy one first. I have in storage The Invincible Vampire. I’m not sure that’s actually his real name, but every time I’ve tried to talk to him he just shouts ‘I’m Invincible!’ and then I have to stake him to stop him from eating anyone. Always comes back to life however, which is why we keep him cryo-frozen. Now Buffy once mentioned that she fought Dracula and that he had the same knack for pulling himself back together, so I’m presuming that it’s magic of some kind, and would be... _most_ obliged if you could assist in working out some kind of counter spell so I could get rid of him for good. Figured it might come in handy if you want to off Dracula some day too.”

Giles tilted his head, pleasantly surprised at the turn events were taking. 

“Interesting. Yes, I think we might be able to assist you. And your second favour?”

A beat, and then The Immortal sat forward, elbows resting on the armrests and hands folded in front of him, as some strange, cold, unsettling anger lit in his eyes.

“I’m going to kill a God.”

Before Giles could formulate any kind of response, he continued.

“And I think you’re my best bet for help and information. Plus - I believe you have some experience in this matter.”

“...I beg your pardon?” Giles asked, taking on board what the other had said, and bristling against the implications. How the devil could The Immortal possibly know about...

“You killed a God once. Well, its human counterpart. Afraid my job won’t be quite so easy.”

Giles’ feelings went from incredulous through incoherence and then straight to cold fury. 

“You think it was _easy_?”

Somewhere inside he could still vividly recall the feeling, the terrifying finality of taking a life...

“Yes,” The Immortal answered, voice completely neutral as he held Giles’ eyes. 

“Get the _hell_ out of my office!” Giles spat, not trusting himself to move for fear of actually physically attacking the monster with the face of a man across from him.

But The Immortal only smiled coldly, not moving an inch.

“And when Illyria destroys the world, I’ll make sure to let her know that you helped pave the way.”

For a second time Giles found himself tripped up by an unexpected change of subject.

“Excuse me? You... you want to kill _Illyria_? I admit that she is hardly the most forthcoming of creatures, but her help has been invaluable on numerous occasions. If all you have to offer is insults, I suggest you act on my words and leave.”

The Immortal shook his head.

“She will betray you.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can, because I’ve seen it already.”

Still fuming, Giles’ eyes narrowed.

“How, if I may ask?”

The Immortal studied him silently for a long moment, and Giles began to wonder if he could trust a single word he had heard. Time traveller from the future indeed. But then The Immortal stared speaking, words slow and measured, and Giles found himself listening despite everything.

“I saw the end of the world. I saw Earth’s population decimated and humanity enslaved. I saw the Council destroyed, Buffy executed on live TV, Slayers hunted like prey and Willow-” 

He suddenly broke off, briefly looking away.

“Sorry. It haunts me. Willow died, trying to save us.”

Giles, for the first time, began considering the idea that The Immortal was just completely mad, or... maybe he had inherited those visions from the Powers that Angel had mentioned? But before he could ask The Immortal once more fastened his eyes on Giles’ face, voice straining to contain the anger broiling under the surface.

“But through it all, the year of untold hell - Illyria did _nothing_. She did not lift a finger to save _any_ of you, even though she was one of the few with the power to do so. And do you know why? Because she saw an empire, and she wanted it. Oh she _likes_ you, I’m sure, but you’re still just - and I _quote_ \- ‘the muck at her feet’. If you’re in her way, she’ll walk right over you mark my words. And now she knows what’s out there: Endless worlds just waiting to be conquered. It’s not a matter of _‘if’_ she’ll betray you, it’s a matter of _‘when’_. It might be a hundred - a thousand - years from now, but that day _will_ come.”

The conviction in The Immortal’s voice was clear, but still Giles found the tale too tall for his liking.

“I’m afraid I find your charge hard to take at face value. Or is this another story from the future?”

The Immortal shook his head.

“It happened in a paradox - last year. The underlying cause was destroyed, and time rewound. But those of us in the centre of it still remember.”

“Give me one single piece of evidence.”

The Immortal sat very still for a long time, seemingly lost in thought for a second time. Then his eyes narrowed and he tilted his head.

“I can get you access to the Saxon Files, but right _now_... There’s something I’ve wondered about. Did she cry?”

Giles remembered this from Rome - this strange, enigmatically nonsensical, disjointed discourse.

“I’m sorry?”

“Illyria. Did she cry when she heard that Harold Saxon had been killed?”

Giles stared at him astonished.

“How...”

The Immortal’s voice was now pure bitterness.

“He cried too, after he killed her. Came to me and told me how we should have all fallen down and worshipped at her feet. If ever there was a pair of star crossed lovers it was him and Illyria - forever looking for ways of stabbing each other in the back.”

Seeing the incomprehension on Giles’ face, he elaborated.

“Harold Saxon was an alien, the man who orchestrated the downfall of Earth... And the rest of the universe, in time. The files will explain the rest. My point, right now, is this: He killed Illyria. With Buffy’s Scythe. Said that she - Illyria - had a sarcophagus that could contain her essence, and that he was putting her back in something called the Deeper Well.”

He leaned forward, dark eagerness in his eyes and voice.

“That’s where I need your help. I have contacts in the demon world, so the sarcophagus is not a problem. But I figure the Deeper Well might fall under your jurisdiction. Not to mention the Scythe.”

Giles stared at him, trying to get to grips with what the other was saying, all thoughts of madness and visions fleeing.

“You... want me to get hold of Buffy’s Scythe for you so you can kill Illyria.”

The Immortal smiled - a cold, vicious smile that reminded Giles of the dark stories that no one could verify, but that clung to The Immortal’s reputation like bloodstains on a white silk shirt.

“I want to cut off her pretty little head and bury her so deep no one will ever find her, until the Earth itself burns up. And I might do a little dance on her grave for good measure.”

“I... see,” Giles said slowly, wishing that he was thirty years younger and had a Slayer’s strength so he could throw the psychopath in the big coat out of the window - something which was sadly not an option as things stood.

The Immortal shrugged, unaware - or not caring - about the impact of his words.

“There is precious little knowledge about the Old Ones around anymore, and most people refer to the Council as having the most information. But I’m not asking your permission, please understand that. I _will_ kill her. And... I think you will help me.” 

If Giles had ever met a more infuriating, smug, insulting - not to mention _unsettling_ \- person in his life, he couldn’t remember it. 

“And why do you think I would do that?”

“For the same reason I came to you, and not Buffy. You’re a Watcher, and you’ll do whatever is necessary to keep the world safe.”

Seeing that Giles was still looking skeptical, he reached inside his coat and pulled out a piece of paper.

“Like I said - I’m not asking you to take my word as sole proof. Here are the details of the people you need to contact in order to see the Saxon Files, along with the relevant codes. They’re about as highly classified as it’s possible to get, but my name should see you through. Which reminds me - I mentioned doing you a favour. This man, Colonel Oduya-” he tapped the paper - “is probably the best man to talk to. You see, I’ve been thinking... you have an army of super powered girls. That can give the wrong impression, especially considering the number of species - both alien and demonic - that can body shift. Not that I’m not sure you are more than capable of sorting these things out yourself, but it would probably be helpful if you pulled together - no stepping on each other’s toes and all that. And you can tell them where to stick it when you’re dealing with demons.” 

“That’s very considerate of you,” Giles said stiffly, not touching the paper, in case this would be seen as an indication that he somehow trusted the madness that had just fallen into his lap.

The Immortal got up - not trying to shake his hand, but instead putting his hands on the desk, leaning forward and studying Giles very intensely.

“Just... whatever you choose, _swear_ to me that you will keep Dawn safe.”

“Dawn?” Giles asked surprised, affected despite himself by the earnest plea in the blue eyes across the desk. 

“Illyria won’t hesitate in availing herself of the nearest interdimensional key if she should need it. Ask her if you don’t believe me - just make sure you’ve locked Dawn up first.”

Seeing the consternation on Giles’ face he reached inside his coat a second time.

“Here’s my direct number. Call me when you’ve made up your mind to help.”

With a swish of his coat he swept out of the room, leaving Giles with a new, and very unwelcome, dilemma.

***

The train pulled into Cardiff station, and Giles carefully gathered together his belongings. There was a part of him that still found it hard to believe he was actually doing this, but unfortunately The Immortal had been right. And Giles had sworn to protect this sorry world, which meant doing things he’d rather not...

As he stood on the platform a little later he looked around for The Immortal’s hard-to-be-missed coat, but frowned as the crowds thinned and the man was clearly not there.

Just as he was about to reach for his mobile phone to give The Immortal a call, a young man in a flawless suit stepped up to him - a little out of breath, as if he’d been running.

“Mr Giles, I presume?”

Giles nodded, a little thrown, and the man held his hand forward.

“My name is Ianto Jones. Captain Harkness sends his apologies, but he has unfortunately been detained and sent me to fetch you.”

Taking his hand Giles thanked him, but privately wondered how on earth The Immortal did it. Did he have armies of perfectly polite and immaculate servants scattered all around the globe? Although he was loath to admit it, Giles did rather envy him this...

Mr Jones offered to take his bags, which Giles readily accepted, only keeping the guitar case for himself.

“I’m supposed to be on holiday...” he said by way of explanation, and Mr Jones nodded gravely.

“Would you like me prepare something to lend your cover story more weight?”

Giles frowned, puzzled, and Mr Jones smiled apologetically.

“My apologies. Of course you have something ready. I wasn’t thinking. Busy... I was going to say morning, but really, it’s been nothing out of the ordinary.”

“And ‘the ordinary’ includes making up fictitious cover stories?” Giles asked lightly, and Mr Jones chuckled.

“One doesn’t get to be a secret undercover operation without learning to cover one’s tracks. I like those where I’m not covering up a murder.”

The polite candidness made Giles shoot the other a look, and then cautiously put forward a question.

“I’m sorry if I’m prying, but Captain Harkness was... very sketchy in describing this... Torchwood. Would you mind explaining what you do in a little more detail, Mr Jones?”

“Not at all. And please call me Ianto...”

The following ten minute car journey turned out to be very illuminating.

***

The garage didn’t look much out of the ordinary, but Ianto smiled and led the way towards a door at the back.

“Mr Giles - welcome to Torchwood.”

Giles followed, wondering at the playful nature of the smile, and then almost faltered.

The narrow passageway opened up to a huge cavernous expanse. He remembered The Immortal saying that the place had been established by Queen Victoria, but he’d not counted on them still using the same space. 

Off-white ceramic tiles, which reminded him of the Underground, covered most of the walls up to average ceiling height, but above that brick walls, so grimy with age that it was anyone’s guess what colour they’d been originally, stretched up and up to a black indistinguishable ceiling. The rest of the vast space was partly filled with different levels, connected by metal gangways and concrete steps built into the floor, and computer workstations were scattered about, as well as random pieces of technology that Giles couldn’t even begin to guess at. There were also modern structures over two floors, housing offices and a greenhouse from what Giles could ascertain. And in the middle...

In the middle what looked like The Water Tower from Roald Dahl Plass.

“Are we directly beneath-” he began, voice trailing off, and Ianto nodded.

“Indeed we are. There are a couple of other ways in - one from a tourist office, and we also have an invisible lift, but it struck me that this route was probably preferable in the circumstances.”

Giles shot the other man a look. “Yes. It’s appreciated. Thank you.”

He was unsure how to react to the _sight_ of Torchwood, and was grateful The Immortal wasn’t there yet, since it seemed Giles was going to have every preconception of the man altered. This place... He needed time to think through what it meant.

It wasn’t until Ianto politely cleared his throat that he realised that he’d become lost in thought.

“The safest place for your luggage is probably Jack’s office. If you’ll follow me...”

Having seen the guitar case safely stowed away, Giles was startled by a sharp squawk, scanning the surroundings for the source, and Ianto pointed upwards.

“Pterodactyl.”

Giles nodded, remembering the explanation of the dimensional rift running through the city, and how Ianto had used the pteradon as a prime example of the randomness of the things that came through. Scanning the deep dark depths of the ceiling until he fastened on what could only be a nest, he saw a prehistoric wing flapping about, and marvelled.

“Would you like something to drink while we wait? My coffee is excellent,” Ianto continued calmly, as if having just introduced the family labrador, and Giles nodded absently.

“Yes. Yes coffee would be just the thing,” he answered, telling himself to get a grip. It wasn’t as if he was unfamiliar with the peculiar or strange - there had been that old lady with the three headed goat a few weeks back, and Faith was right now dealing with some kind of South American Loch Ness monster. Not to mention the unicorn that Chao Ahn was investigating...

No, this was not about the strangeness of the sights, but all about the reasons for his visit. Coffee... coffee would be more than welcome.

“Please take a seat,” Ianto indicated a worn sofa. “I’m afraid nothing here is very posh, but it’s clean, trust me.”

Then his hand went to his ear, and he nodded.

“Yes, he’s here...”

A chuckle, and another nod.

“Will do. See you shortly.”

Looking up, he smiled.

“They should be back very soon. Now, let me get you a drink.”

Shortly afterward Giles was drinking an exceedingly good cup of coffee, wondering if he could get Ianto to share his secret (not even magic could make Theresa’s coffee drinkable), when a loud alarm suddenly rang out. The heavy roll door cranked open, and in strode The Immortal, coat billowing in his wake, and Giles was suddenly reminded rather forcefully of Angel. No wonder Buffy had fallen for him...

After him walked a dark haired woman, pretty, but with an edge of steel in her eyes that almost made Giles smile.

The Immortal threw his arms wide.

“Giles! Welcome! I trust that Ianto has looked after you?”

“Splendidly, yes, thank you,” Giles replied, standing up and holding out his hand.

The Immortal... no _Jack_ , he needed to remember this, shook it thoroughly, then turned to the woman beside him.

“Gwen, this is Rupert Giles, the head of the Council of Watchers. Giles, this is Gwen Cooper, my second in command.”

Giles shook her hand, and she smiled a toothy welcome.

“Welcome to Torchwood! You’re here to sort out the vampire, right? I didn’t even know vampires _existed_ until Spike and Buffy came by that time.”

For a second Giles wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

“Buffy and Spike were _here_?”

Jack pulled an apologetic face.

“Did I... not mention that?”

“No,” Giles said unhappily, “and neither did they. What were they doing here?”

Jack shrugged.

“Happened across them in town when tracking down an alien and... Buffy wanted some answers. I would probably have brought it up when I went to see you, except we were a little... preoccupied.”

“Yes, rather,” Giles agreed, discomfort settling on him once more as he remembered the meeting, and he took a step towards the office.

“Well no time like the present - shall I fetch the spell ingredients?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, suddenly hating the situation more than ever, and wincing as he heard Jack laugh and tell his employees to get their minds out of the gutter.

The fact that being thought a paramour of The Immortal was a preferable option to the truth was just another price to pay for trying to do the right thing... Although knowing that Buffy had lied to him already _did_ make him feel fractionally better about going behind her back. And he had to, for the sake of her marriage. He had no doubt that Buffy would act on the information on Illyria, no matter Spike’s attachment to the Hell God, but it would undoubtedly drive a wedge between them. So here he was... 

(Her betrayer and her protector all at once. Funny how history repeated itself.)

Sighing deeply he grabbed hold of the bag they needed. If anyone had ever told he’d be in cahoots with The Immortal...

The Invincible Vampire had been laid out in the medical bay, a white-tiled and scrupulously clean space in its own little alcove. 

(Apparently the morgue consisted of 52 underground bays and counting. No wonder the catacombs had held no dread for The Immortal Giles though grimly, as he contemplated how deep the base had to go. Layers and layers of dead people. Rather appropriate, all things told.)

Purging the macabre thoughts from his mind, Giles took stock of the situation.

“Very good. I will need to set up a few items...”

He opened his bag and removed the candles and herbs, before bringing out a piece of chalk and carefully studying the table to see how large the circle would need to be. Thankfully the floor was concrete - white tiles would have been tricky to mark. But as he bent down to draw, Jack stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Wait. You didn’t say anything about drawing symbols!”

“Is there a problem?”

Jack studied him silently, then bit his lip and let go of him.

“No. Fine. Go ahead.”

Giles tried to smile politely, but the antipathy was palpable, and he once more cursed the day The Immortal had walked into Buffy’s life.

Gwen however was watching with huge eyes.

“So this is, like, _actual, real_ magic?”

“Yes,” Jack replied curtly, and Gwen shot him a speculative look, before quietly stepping backwards, observing, but not venturing forth with any more questions.

As Giles began to position the various candles, and looking through his notes - correct pronunciation was key - Jack began to slowly walk back and forth, knuckles shining white from gripping the stake, and tenseness now hanging around him like a shroud.

“ _Jack_ ,” Ianto said tersely after a minute, “I swear - if you don’t stop pacing I’ll lock you in one of the weevil cells!”

Giles looked up, surprised. He’d been expecting the blank obedience of the Rome servants, but the look on Ianto’s face was exasperated and not a little angry.

“I don’t like it,” Jack replied, and Ianto sighed.

“Do I have to remind you that _you_ asked _him_ to come?”

“Look I’ve hated magic for more than a hundred years, it’s not the kind of dislike you can just overcome in a moment. There are... a lot of bad associations.”

Ianto rolled his eyes.

“Well the Daleks came with worse associations, but you still ran off to fight _them_ without a second’s hesitation.”

Jack opened his mouth, hesitated, and then - miracles of miracles! - closed it again, and Giles appreciation of Ianto rose by several hundred degrees. 

The spell was complex, but Gwen and Ianto proved surprisingly able helpers, something Giles made sure to remark upon once the spell was over. 

“Not so different from trying to follow alien manuals,” Ianto shrugged, and Gwen nodded.

“We once had to defuse this bomb - this was while Jack was away - and there was this ridiculously complicated sequence-”

Jack interrupted the anecdote, impatiently tapping the stake against his leg.

“So - he’s just a normal vampire now.”

“Yes,” Giles replied patiently. “You can stake him now.”

Jack lifted his hand, and then stopped. A slow smile spread across his face, and Giles wondered what had finally broken the tension.

“Gwen, I’ve not been thinking straight. This is your job.”

“What?” she asked, flummoxed. 

“Vampire Slayers are girls. Go on - have a go!”

He tossed her the stake, and she stared at it.

“I am pretty sure it doesn’t say anything about staking vampires in my contract...”

“Oh go on. Try.”

“But he’s... all frozen.”

Jack grinned.

“Ianto - fry him!”

Ianto brought out some electrical tool or other, attached it to the vampire, and shot a full charge through him.

“And he’s all yours!” Jack said, as the creature slowly began groaning.

But-” Gwen said, looking from face to face.

“Very simple. Stake goes through the heart, vampire goes poof! Go on, before he tries to bite you!”

Face filled with sudden determination, she raised the stake and plunged it into the vampire’s chest.

Giles stood back as the demon exploded, and Gwen burst out laughing.

“Oh my God. It... really just went poof. That’s _amazing_!”

“See - knew you could do it! Oh I remember this one night on a beach when Buffy fought about... five. Or was it six? Hmmm, fantastic evening. Especially because then-”

He suddenly broke off, curbing a grin.

“Ah. She’d do worse than kill me if I told you.”

Ianto, busy brushing dust off his suit, shot Jack a weary look.

“You’re impossible. I’ve no idea why we put up with you.”

“Oh come on Ianto - you know _exactly_ why you put up with me!”

The bright, suggestive smile was par for the course, but Ianto’s answering one was a surprise, and Giles felt his brain scrambling to catch up, as he was reminded of Andrew’s report which had talked about a ‘Jones’... Could it be the same man? Ianto had not hinted at any kind of knowledge of Jack’s alter ego - although, to be fair, he’d readily admitted to being an accomplished liar. 

Turning it over in his mind, Giles thought that he’d sleep a lot easier knowing that Jack had someone like Ianto keeping him in check - there was something reassuringly Watcher-ly about the young man. 

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud screeching alarm, which made all three Torchwood people run for the main area with a speed (and choice swear words) that spoke of genuine urgency, and Giles - figuring he would probably be in the way - slowly and methodically began to clear away the spell ingredients. Still he couldn’t help listening to the swift back-and-forth discussions that filtered down, which reminded him so forcefully of his own Slayers that he had to stop himself from offering advice.

Not that his advice was needed, as Jack quickly determined the best course of action and sent Ianto and Gwen out to deal with the emergency at hand. 

When Giles made his way to the centre of the Hub again, all magical artefacts carefully stored away in the bag, he found Jack waiting for him. 

“Two alarms in four hours. I could do without days like this. Still,” he smiled joylessly, “not the end of the world.”

“Indeed,” Giles returned, and Jack nodded slowly.

“You read the Saxon files,” he said. It was a statement, not a question, so Giles didn’t feel compelled to answer. 

He didn’t want to discuss what he’d discovered, although Jack’s strange mixture of reluctance and suppressed anger now made a great deal more sense... As did his unpleasant invocation of Glory’s fate. 

The Year That Had Never Been, soaked in the blood of millions, brought to life from dry military reports, where facts and witness reports had been scrupulously collected... the fate of the Slayers a mere footnote. And - despite himself - Giles had been forced to reconsider his opinion of The Immortal. To be a sadistic madman’s plaything for a year explained the... _unhinged_ quality to the man’s attitude, and Giles wondered how he’d never considered that The Immortal’s immortality could be used against him. 

Thankfully Jack didn’t seem to expect an answer, and instead tilted his head.

“You want to come into my office and talk shop? I’ve turned off the CCTV, we can talk freely.”

Giles nodded, and followed Jack into the office, retrieving his guitar case from under the desk.

“You going to serenade me?” Jack asked happily, but then swiftly turned serious as Giles opened the case and brought out Buffy’s Scythe.

It looked impossibly out of place against the grey, technical functionality of Torchwood... The smooth curves and deep colours standing out like a beacon from another world, and for the first time Giles began to wonder how exactly The Immortal managed to live in both worlds, and what kind of personality split was necessary in order to cope.

“How did you get it off her?” Jack asked softly as he took it from Giles’ hands, reverently turning it over.

“Told her I’d discovered some new information and needed to have a proper look at it.”

“And have you?” Jack asked, eyes sharp and calculating.

“Of course I have,” Giles snapped back impatiently. “And I am not happy about this, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Jack lowered his eyes, and Giles took a deep breath before digging out the notes at the back out the case.

“You will need these also - it will explain how her essence is to contained within her sarcophagus.”

“Thank you,” Jack said quietly, obviously trying his best to curb his own discomfort. “Are you in charge of the Deeper Well by the way?”

“More or less. The murder of Drogyn was a tragic loss, and we are still looking for a replacement. But as things stand I’ll certainly be able to perform the necessary rites.”

Jack nodded and carefully returned the Scythe and notes to the guitar case, before opening a safe in the wall and locking them in, much to Giles’ silent approval. 

“Well that’s that done. Come on - sit down, have a cup of coffee. I swear, Ianto makes the best coffee in the world.”

“So I discovered.”

And impossible as Giles would once have thought the idea, he had to admit that he had misjudged the other man. It was probably a combination of factors, the knowledge of Jack’s suffering not the least, but looking around at the Hub Giles thought that maybe the surroundings played a not insignificant role. The Immortal’s mansion was... beautiful, but a place of somewhat impersonal luxury. The home of someone for whom life and death were remote and largely ignored. This place however - dark, battered, functional - felt much more... _real_ in its grimness. Giles disliked the word ‘real’ (there was something about kids these days ‘keeping it real’, whatever that meant), but he nonetheless suspected that - despite his deep reservations about The Immortal - Captain Jack Harkness might be someone he could respect. Taking a sip of his coffee he ventured a question.

“Your Mr Jones... I was wondering... Oxford or Cambridge?”

At which Jack threw his head back and laughed whole-heartedly, and Giles tried not to sigh. Respect, yes. _Like_... probably not.

***

**One month later, the Deeper Well**

It was a cold night, autumn beginning to assert its influence. Jack wished he had a teleport or a transmat, since that would have made life a lot simpler, but slow and steady still won the race.

The silent shadow of Ianto was next to him, and behind him eight sturdy Vahrall demons, carrying Illyria’s sarcophagus. 

For about the millionth time he turned his head, just to make sure it was there - that she hadn’t magically come back to life, that his plan had actually worked, that this wasn’t a dream or fantasy... 

He’d thought he’d feel... _different_. That his actions would have brought closure, or satisfaction, or... something. The Master’s drunken ramblings (“You’ve heard the news, right? I killed God today!”) still stood out far too painfully in his memory, but he felt no similar triumph, nor any kind of sudden god-complex resulting from his actions. He’d said he’d dance on her grave, but he didn’t feel like dancing. Mostly what he felt was _tired_. 

One down, how many more to go? 

This planet... He loved this planet, but the cost of protecting it was beginning to add up. How many more would he lose, how many more would be sacrificed in order to keep Earth safe? And they never stopped coming... Demons and wanna-be gods and war mongering species from all over the universe, not to mention humankind itself - how long before the fire finally burned out and he couldn’t do this anymore? Would he end up as Alex, the man who had left him in command of Torchwood by killing himself and all his co-workers out of despair? Except death was never an option...

As the opening to the Deeper Well became apparent he spotted Giles and a couple of older Watchers waiting for them in the gathering gloom. Introductions were made, respects paid, and Jack was painfully, pathetically, grateful for the calm stoicism of the English... Even the slight fussiness of the older men - who were quietly arguing about different interpretations of ancient texts and how this might affect the ritual, as well as the particular legalities regarding Old Ones - was like a balm. It made the enormity of what he’d done fade into the background, quietly subjecting it to the scrutiny of institutions nearly as old as time, and made the act less important than which rules had been followed or broken. 

Then they dove into the belly of the Earth, and Jack had to fight to stop himself from running back out as fast as his legs could carry him. Two thousand years were weighing on him, the half-memories of an unconscious deathlike unexistance, with earth above and below and all around (in his mouth, in his throat, he couldn’t even scream), history moving on and on and on... entombed like these who had once been gods. 

_(“What makes you think you could ever harm **me**?” she had asked, coldly dismissive - and he had laughed, taking her by surprise._

_“I am more immortal than you. And what’s more... I **remember** \- ‘Lyria.”_

_He had seen fear in her eyes then, and had known that victory would be his._

_But as he’d prepared to deliver the killing blow, she’d smiled, and her features had returned to that of the dead woman whose body she’d stolen._

_Yet her face had been cold and calculating, soft brown eyes holding less warmth than a frozen wasteland._

_“You **will** remember me. Because you always remember what you killed ... Don't you, Jack?”_

_He still didn’t know why the words had unsettled him so. But at the back of his mind there was quiet terror and loss that he couldn't explain, and he hated that even in death she'd won.)_

Once the spells were done, and his presence no longer needed, he stepped out of the ante chamber and found Ianto on the bridge across the Well itself, face lit up by the ghostly light from below. He didn’t look up as Jack stepped up next to him, but after a moment spoke:

“There is a hole in the world. I never knew.”

“Does it bother you?” Jack asked softly, and Ianto turned his head, his face pale and almost otherworldly, but oddly calm.

“No.”

He laid his hand on top of Jack’s, and continued, eyes searching and full of complex emotions.

“You killed a god, and the world is hollow. Seems fitting somehow.”

The only answer Jack could give was the silence of the dead that surrounded them.

__

_(He had killed a god..._

_But in his memories there was a silver amulet that could tell the future, and dead bodies._

_“21st Century, everything changes, Jack. And we’re not ready...”_

_He didn’t know how to tell Ianto that it wasn’t just the world that was hollow.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Next up I'll start posting little side stories (three of them - all very Happily Ever After), and they will be posted in their own little section, which will be Part 6 of the 'verse, before coming back to this one and finishing it.~~
> 
> Nevermind. Posting the interlude as part of this, and the other two on their own at some point. They're basically Spuffy fluff.
> 
> The final two (proper) chapters of _this story_ deal with _Children of Earth_ and what happened afterwards.


	5. Interlude: Secret Santa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmassy fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Change of plan. Everyone probably needs something light before delving into Children of Earth! So here comes the interlude. :)

_Ianto: If you're interested... I've still got that stopwatch.  
Jack: So?  
Ianto: Well, think about it. Lots of things you can do with a stopwatch.  
Jack: Oh, yeah. I can think of a few.  
Ianto: There's quite a list._

**23rd of December 2008, Buffy’s house, London**

“Dawn! You came early just like I asked!”

Finding herself wrapped in a crushing Slayer-sister hug, Dawn waited patiently and then raised an eyebrow as Buffy let go. 

“Of course. So... what’s the emergency?”

Buffy bit her lip, then ushered her in, taking her coat and bags before guiding her upstairs.

“It’s not an emergency. It’s just...” she stopped halfway up the stairs and turned, the look on her face unreadable. 

“The Immortal sent me a Christmas card and I _have_ to show it to someone. And you’re the only someone there is.”

Dawn stared, feeling the cogs in her brain slowly connect.

“The Immortal? What? How? Why? I mean...”

Buffy waved a dismissive hand.

“Spike and I ran into him in the... spring? Summer? We kinda exchanged addresses and... stuff.”

“And you were planning on telling me this... _when_ exactly?” Dawn asked indignantly. She’d always liked The Immortal - even back when Buffy had thought he might be evil - and felt rather cheated. But Buffy just shrugged and kept walking up the stairs, piquing Dawn’s curiosity.

What could he possibly have written?

Watching Buffy pull out an envelope from a box under the bed, she tried to prepare herself for anything, and took the card with some trepidation. But the image on the front was surprisingly tasteful and low key, a standard Christmas tree with ‘Merry Christmas’ emblazoned in gold letters. 

Then she opened it, and her jaw dropped.

“Holy _crap_!”

Slowly, unable to truly take in what she was seeing, she looked up at Buffy to see her sister shaking with laughter. 

Dawn stared at the card again, opened her mouth, and then closed it. Because what could she say? 

_‘I can’t believe he sent his ex-girlfriend a picture of himself wearing only a Santa hat?’_

Firstly, clearly he had, and secondly - she could most _definitely_ believe it of him. Especially since...

“Is it...” she started, and Buffy nodded firmly. “ _Oh_ yeah. No photo shopping.”

“Wow.” 

Buffy smiled smugly, and Dawn felt very tempted to make sure Big Sis got nothing in her Christmas stocking except coal. (Although maybe rocks would be better. Or demon eggs. With gremlins in.) 

Why did Buffy always get the best guys? Even her exes were incredible. (Not that Dawn’s current boyfriend was in any way lacking, _but_...)

Idly turning the card over, Dawn discovered a PS on the back. She didn’t get further than _‘Thank you so much for the list. Number 17 was new to me, which is something I rarely get to say! And, since you asked so nicely-’_ before Buffy snatched the card from her, the laughter overtaken with panic.

“Don’t read that!” she snapped, and Dawn’s eyes narrowed. 

“Why? What is it? What’s the thing about a list?”

“Nothing! Just... it’s nothing.”

At that moment the phone rang and Buffy walked off to answer it, the card clutched in her hand.

***

It took Dawn almost 24 hours’ worth of stealth-search before she found the card again - Buffy’s hiding skills had improved quite spectacularly.

But instead of more info about the mysterious list, the PS contained something far more intriguing... The rules to a game called Naked Hide-and-Seek. 

As she took in all the exciting possibilities that opened up, Dawn decided that Buffy’s problem wasn’t unfair luck - it was an unwillingness to share. Then she glanced at her watch and grabbed her coat, praying that the shops were still open.

***

“Dawn - where have you been? Everyone’s here, the food is on the table, and you took off without a word!”

No hug this time, only glares.

“Sorry... had to run out and get a last minute present for my boyfriend.”

“But you told me you’d bought his present _weeks_ ago!” 

Really, there was no need for that tone, Dawn thought - just because _she_ was organised, and Buffy wasn’t. OK, so maybe she’d rubbed it in a little...

“Well this is more of a shared present...” 

She grinned and pulled out the gift box before lifting the lid a fraction, allowing Buffy to glimpse the stopwatch inside.

Buffy’s mouth fell open, but before she could speak Willow called out from the dining room.

“Are you coming yet? The food’s getting cold!”

“You are _so_ going to pay for this! I _told_ you not to read it.” Buffy finally managed in a hissed whisper, and Dawn laughed. 

Family feuds were supposed to be a holiday staple, right? She was just following procedure.

Buffy didn’t share Dawn’s amusement however, grasping Dawn’s arm, eyes narrowing.

“Dawn! _Swear_ to me that you won’t tell anyone about the card.”

Dawn sighed.

“Fine, I won’t tell. But you’re being _way_ touchy.”

With another Glare of Death Buffy let go, before plastering on her Happy Hostess smile and making her way back to the dining room, as Dawn shrugged out of her coat. 

_Sisters._ Although maybe she could blackmail the list thing out of Buffy?

On the other hand, had Buffy given any thought to the fact that other people might _like_ to know that The Immortal had sent a card? To know that he hadn’t just vanished off the face of the planet without a warning, like Illyria...

Because people who disappeared without a trace were very inconsiderate, and Dawn would be sad to see The Immortal put in the same bracket as the Bitchy Blue Ice Queen. 

Opening the door to the dining room, and realising that she’d walked straight into another ‘exchange of opinions’, Dawn sighed deeply, and tried not think about what The Immortal’s house would look like now - there would undoubtedly be beautiful and extravagant decorations everywhere, and a _giant_ Christmas tree, and servants cooking fantastic food and heaps of presents and...

***

**Same time, Cardiff, Wales**

“I _hate_ weevils. If this damn vortex manipulator worked properly I’d go find their home planet and _blow them all up_ , so they couldn’t come here and screw up _goddamn Christmas Eve_.”

For a moment the only sound was the squelching of their shoes, then Ianto, his torch flickering across the damp bricks, coughed slightly, and said:

“Well on the positive side, I suppose this is one of the _nicer_ sewers, all things told...” 

Stopping dead in his tracks, Jack turned on his heel and shone his own torch straight into Ianto’s face.

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“The Jeeves thing! My servants in Rome have had countless generations' worth of training, so by now they're pretty much _born_ carrying trays and talking softly - where the hell do _you_ get it from?”

Ianto raised an eyebrow.

“If you are trying to suggest that my mother had an affair with Stephen Fry, I'm afraid I have to disappoint you.”

Jack burst out laughing and grabbed hold of his gorgeous tea boy, kissing him as thoroughly as possible in the circumstances. 

When he pulled back he saw that the smooth butler-y facade had now crumbled, and a smile was deeply embedded in the corner of Ianto’s mouth. Jack grinned widely at the sight - he had the power to kiss the Beauty to life, to see what lay behind the carefully maintained facade, and it was a power he relished very much indeed.

“Number 17 on Buffy’s List when we get back to the Hub?”

Ianto's smile turned positively wicked, not at all dimmed by the glum surroundings.

“Certainly Sir. And remember - Gwen brought in mince pies.”

“Even better...”

Screw the rain, screw the dirt, screw the bloody weevil - soon enough he’d be celebrating in the best way possible.

***

And everyone had a very merry Christmas. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's curious about the rules to Naked Hide-and-Seek, **copperbadge** wrote a *genius* fic: [Not What You're Thinking](https://archiveofourown.org/works/846805).


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'There are things worse than walls. Terrible... and beautiful. If we look at them for too long they will burn right through us. Truths we couldn't bear. Not every day.'_  
>  (Wesley, AtS S5.17)
> 
> This chapter deals with the aftermath, looking at what happens when someone has been burned right through and there is nothing left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set post-Torchwood S3, 'Children of Earth' and also draws on the events of the radio play 'The House of the Dead'. Takes place shortly before Jack went to see Gwen.

_Spike: Really, I'm all right. Think I still dream of a crypt for two with a white picket fence? My eyes are clear.  
Buffy: Good. I'm glad. Thank you.  
Spike: Never much cared for picket fences, anyway. Bloody dangerous.  
~  
Buffy: But I knew what was right. I don't have that anymore. I don't understand. I don't know how to live in this world, if these are the choices. If everything just gets stripped away. I don't see the point.  
~  
Jack: Still. I have lived so many lives. Time to find a new one._

**London, March 2010**

The white picket fence still made Buffy smile every time she saw it. 

Back when they’d started looking for a house, the estate agent had asked them if there were any _special_ requirements - shooting Spike (still rocking the punk look) a swift glance, obviously trying to intimate that he was a cool, with-it kinda guy.

Spike had sighed and patiently waited for Buffy to reel off her list of number of bedrooms and preferable locations that she’d worked out before they came - but instead she’d smiled, flushed with sudden inspiration, and said: “I’d like a white picket fence.”

There had been a pause, as the estate agent had tried to rally.

“Um, of course. That’s... a bit unusual. Might be difficult to find...”

“Well that’s why we’re here! I mean, it is your job, isn’t it?” she asked, and turned to Spike, whose face had gone very quiet.

“I know you think they’re dangerous, but if I have to live in this country, I’d like a small reminder of home, yeah?”

He’d nodded, eyes stunned and full of that overwhelmed gratitude that she never knew what to do with. The impossibleness of their life - the fact that they had it, and it was theirs and it was _real_ was something she still didn’t know what to do with. But it made all the heartache - the pains and difficulties of the first couple of years’ worth of adjustments all worth it.

And now they had - on top of everything else - their own house with a white picket fence, like a symbol of their dreams coming true. Not that they didn’t fight so loud that the neighbours often wouldn’t meet their eyes... Or maybe that was because of... _other_ loud noises, but English people were far too polite to ever say anything.

The day had been long, but satisfying, and Buffy was trying to work out what to make for dinner, but instead found herself staring out of the kitchen window, trying to make out the fence in the descending darkness. She really ought to have done some shopping on the way home from the university...

Spike had disappeared down the garden to his shed, another trend that was getting pretty ingrained. Human-Spike was... not that different from Vampire-Spike, but certain traits had emerged - or possibly re-emerged - that were still throwing her a little. Like the shed. And the need to go to the local pub to watch football matches - not to mention the giant wall chart in his shed to keep track of everything. She’d expected a weapons’ collection, not rants about Wayne Rooney.

The buzzing of the doorbell threw her out of her musings, and she walked to the front door, wondering if it was yet another parcel from Giles with something she needed to study.

Instead she opened the door to be faced with The Immortal. He was wrapped up in his greatcoat, belt tightened around his middle and every button done up. In one hand he held a briefcase and there was the merest hint of a composed, polite smile on his face.

“Buffy. May I come in?"

"Um... of course."

He waited until she'd moved out of the way before walking through the door, the deliberate distance somehow far more uncomfortable than his usual in-your-face-ness.

She showed him into the sitting room, not knowing what to say. 

Where was the ubiquitous ‘Hello Princess!’? Where was his smile? Where his ready embrace and banter, with enough flirting to nearly make her blush? Not that she hadn’t seen him angry or tired, and even sometimes - very rarely - vulnerable, but there had always been an excess of emotion... Sometimes it was locked away, but it had always been obvious, at least to her. 

(That’s what she got for having dated vampires - an overdeveloped ability to read suppressed emotions.) 

“Have a seat?” she offered, and he bowed his head, before seating himself in an armchair. She had never seen him in an armchair before - he was a natural sofa-sprawler - and somehow the image of him sitting there, perfectly (unnaturally) quiet, literally buttoned up and with his briefcase gingerly balanced on his knees, reminded her of when she’d found crazy, newly-souled Spike in the basement of the rebuilt Sunnydale High, despite the vast differences in appearance and behaviour. She just knew that every sense inside her screamed that something was terribly, horribly wrong... 

It had been almost half a year since the big explosion in Cardiff - the one that had clearly been designed to take out Torchwood - and the strange days following, with the children speaking in unison and no information available anywhere. Giles had tried talking to UNIT and been told that ‘Everything was being done’ - the brush-off so brusque that he was still offended.

Several weeks later Gwen had called, quietly letting Buffy know that Ianto had died and Jack ‘disappeared’. Except now he was _here_ , in her living room, and she dearly wished Gwen had told her more, because this hollow, quiet shell wasn’t the man she had known. 

“I’m sorry about Ianto,” she said softly, unable to find anything else to say, and he seemed to look at her properly for the first time.

“Thank you,” he said gravely, and her heart caught in her throat. She knew what it was to lose someone, knew that abyss of loneliness and pain far too well, and yet - and yet he was carrying burdens other than grief, she was sure of it. If grief - and the seeking of solace - had been at the heart of this, he would have told her, whether she was married or not, she was sure of it. No there was something else, something she couldn’t work out.

Oh god she was floundering and he was _looking_ at her and she needed to say something...

“Is it OK if I go get Spike? Unless you want to speak to just me?”

“I was just about to suggest you fetch him.”

Relief sweeping through her, she swiftly made her way down the garden. She had always known how to deal with him, but now... Right now, she needed someone to hold her hand.

"Spike! We have a visitor!"

Spike’s brow drew together when she mentioned _who_ their visitor was, but Buffy shook her head.

“Don’t do the jealous thing. Something... something’s happened to him. It’s... I don’t know. Just _please_ , don’t be difficult.” 

When they got back to the sitting room, The Immortal had pulled the coffee table closer, placing his briefcase on it, and was bringing out a folder.

He looked up as they entered, and his face was almost apologetic as he caught Spike’s eyes.

"Don't worry, I'm not staying long. Just... brought something for Buffy."

"Right," Spike said, unsure, but sat down on the sofa alongside her.

The Immortal looked through the papers in the folder and extracted several sheets.

"Buffy? I need you to sign here and here. Oh... and here."

He held the papers forward, along with a pen, and she took them automatically, then frowned.

"Wait... what is this?"

"My...” A brief hesitation. “The Immortal's estate. I'm giving it to you."

She stared for a long moment.

"... _What_?"

He studied her carefully, and then elaborated, slowly and precisely. 

"My estate - I want you to have it. All of it. The house, the cars, the land, the money. It’s all yours. Just sign the papers. I’ve done all the legal work."

Buffy didn’t generally feel like a dumb blonde, but right now her hair colour seemed to have seeped into her head, killing all her brain cells.

"But... but why?"

A barely-there pause, but the distance in his eyes grew immeasurably.

"I'm leaving."

" _Leaving_? How leaving - Gwen said you’d gone away. But you’re here now... Are you going abroad or-"

"No," he cut her off. "I mean, I'm leaving the planet."

The words refused to make sense for a few moments. OK, so she knew that aliens were real, and she'd known for more than a year that he was a time traveller, but 'leaving the planet' were still words that were absurd. 

Seeing the look on her face he shrugged slightly.

“There are a few other people I need to see first. But then... then I’m gone.”

"But why?" she pressed on, shaking her head. What wasn’t he telling her?

He was silent for a long time, and an emotion of some kind almost broke through, but not enough to tell her anything except that whatever had happened had been bad on an unprecedented scale. He was so old, what could possibly have done this to him? She remembered trying to get him to tell her about Baxter, and he’d been a stony wall, angry to be quizzed. But now...

He shook his head imperceptibly and lowered his eyes.

"I... I can't tell you."

Spike, who had barely moved until now, finally spoke up, voice calm but with an underlying horror, and Buffy (despite everything) was glad that she wasn’t alone in almost freaking out.

"What. Did. You. Do?"

He looked up then, the last pale rays of sunlight cutting through the gloom, picking out a few strands of grey in his hair and caressing his cheek - and he was as beautiful and unknowable as the portrait on his wall.

"I saved the world," he said, voice perfectly blank, and suddenly all Buffy could hear in her head was Willow's voice, from so many years ago now...

_‘There was just... nothing. It was like he was dead.’_

She'd never feared him, not even close, but now she instinctively reached out and grasped Spike's hand. If The Immortal noticed, he didn’t let on, just looked at her, eyes now imploring.

“Buffy please. There - there is no one else. If-”

He caught himself, but she immediately jumped at the chance.

“If what?”

A bitter smile, swiftly curbed, and then he looked down, his voice low and suddenly rough.

“If things had gone to plan I wouldn’t even be here, arguing with you. You would simply have received a letter from my solicitor informing you that you were the main beneficiary of my will.”

She blinked.

“But... You can’t die. I don’t understand.”

He shook his head, speaking more to himself than her, she realised. 

“I had it all worked out. A night of magic and death. Ironic, considering how I always hated magic, that that’s what I turned to. Desperate times, I guess. But Ianto-”

He broke off, swallowing hard, and for a moment Buffy thought the facade might finally crack. But then he pulled himself together again, looking up and meeting her eyes.

“You know it’s funny Buffy, how we tend to fall for the same type. My plan was simple - I was going to destroy the rift, and in the process seal myself away in the void. Eternal oblivion...”

The longing in his voice made her shiver, because she remembered that feeling. Knew what it was like to run towards death in order to find peace away from the impossible realities of life. Which choices had he been faced with to leave him in such a state?

But before she could find the right words, he continued, the strangest mixture of pain and pride on his face.

“Except the magic brought Ianto back, body and soul. I’d hoped to see him again - an echo, a ghostly memory, so I could say a final goodbye - but it was _him_. And he decided to save me, taking my place. He didn’t remember-”

Catching himself abruptly, The Immortal smiled stiffly.

“So - no need to worry about Cardiff anymore. No more rift. No more odd statistics. No more aliens running riot. Buffy, _please_ just sign the papers.”

There was urgency in his voice, and she could tell that just being there was painful for him. She sighed.

"OK... but what will I do with..."

She flickered through the papers, gasping as she saw a figure, and Spike’s jaw dropped.

"...that... much... money..."

He shrugged. "Whatever you want.”

She shook her head.

“But really...”

There was silence for a moment, then he spoke, voice distant, as if he was quoting something he’d heard a long time ago.

“The human infant mortality rate is 29,158 deaths per day. Every three seconds a child dies. The human response is to accept, and adapt.”

Looking up there was something... something old and dead in his eyes.

“You could try to change that.”

She swallowed, abruptly reminded of her little sister, tied up and ready to be sacrificed, and how hollow life had seemed when everything kept being taken away... Trying to clear her thoughts she attempted an answer.

“I... Are you sure... your house... you said it was your only refuge...”

He laughed then, a strangely harsh and bitter sound. She’d never thought that he could laugh like that.

“Last place I will ever go. Don’t get me wrong, I love Italy and Italians. Too much for my own good, really. Or too much for _their_ own good, I should say.”

He smiled, bitterly.

“No, that place has served its purpose. If The Immortal can’t die, he should at least disappear. Never was good for much anyway.”

Spike, thankfully, kept quiet, and gently she reached out, laid her hand on top of his.

“He was good for _me_.”

The darkness left his eyes as he slowly shook his head.

“It was the other way around Buffy. And this is why you deserve it. You know, I was planning on buying you lots of presents when your kids come along - I guess you’ll have to buy them yourself now.”

“ _If_ we have children,” she admonished, trying for a little levity, and for the first time a shadow of a genuine smile lit up his face.

"You will," he stated, unequivocally, and then continued, looking from her to Spike and back again.

“Three thousand years from now your descendants will walk the stars, beautiful and deadly, and quite, quite irresistible. A touch sociopathic, it’s true, but he came through in the end.”

He tilted his head.

“Yeah, he did you proud... Buffy - _sign the papers._ ”

She wanted to shake him, hit him, force an emotion forward, _make_ him talk. What was he, who was he, how did he know the things he knew, _what had he done_?

Instead she signed her name.

He swiftly sorted out which papers she had to keep and which he would take back to the lawyers, and then, as he was about to close the briefcase, hesitated.

Extracting a blank sheet of paper, he swiftly wrote on it, then handed it over.

“Here. This is the address of Martha Jones. If you ever have any problems with aliens, give her a call. And feel free to tell her... anything and everything, I trust her to the end of the world and beyond. Literally.”

A soft smile touched his mouth.

“You’ll like her. She saved the world once, all by herself. And her husband is pretty special too.”

Then he closed the briefcase and stood up, handing Buffy the paper, and she looked up at him, bewildered.

“You’re leaving already? Don’t you want... some tea or... something?”

He shook his head lightly.

“No, I’m... I need to go.”

Abruptly making for the door, he didn’t stop until he was outside on the step, and Buffy felt the far too familiar déjà vu of ‘He’s _leaving_!’

How many men had walked out of her life, by now? And she knew that really, he was nothing like Angel or Giles, since he was certainly not leaving ‘for her own good’, but still... They always walked away.

“Will I see you again?” she asked as he turned, feeling like the greatest cliché in the book, but well, clichés were clichés for a reason...

“I don’t know,” he said simply. “Probably not. Which reminds me... Could you do me a favour?”

She nodded.

“Of course.”

“Please destroy my portrait. It’s the only thing that carries my image and I... don’t want it. Better if I am a faceless legend. Thank you.”

“Immortal...” she began, then faltered, their first meeting suddenly coming back to her, here at the end.

‘You look like you could do with a friend,’ he’d said, so certain of his own charms, reeling her in with laughing blue eyes, dimples and mystery.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Her Immortal - her bright, vivacious, Prince Charming should never be... this. Except he was. 

“Goodbye,” he said, shaking Spike’s hand, and Spike replied “All the best,” and somehow the world didn’t end. And then...

He held out his hand towards her, but she shook her head wordlessly and stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him. And finally, _finally_ , he let go, pulling her so close that anyone who wasn’t a Slayer would have been crushed. 

“Goodbye Buffy,” he whispered into her hair, and the catch in his voice was somehow worse anything else. “I... I wish I could have loved you.”

He pulled back, and for just a moment she could see right through him, the way she had sometimes been able to back then, and the naked pain and longing on his face - so desperate she felt as if it was scalding her - explained better than anything he’d said why he was leaving. 

But then the mask came back down, and with a gentle nod he turned and walked away without another word.

Watching the evening darkness swallow him up, all Buffy could think of was the warmth and beauty of Rome, and wondered how they had come to this, as she felt their fairy tale turn to dust.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Torchwood: Children of Earth_ and _The Year That Never Was_ cast long shadows, as you will see. Hopefully this will provide a certain amount of closure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at the end. To everyone who read this magnum opus: I seriously can't thank you enough for sharing this with me. Any and all comments more than welcome - a word, a sentence, a dissertation... I'd love to hear from you.
> 
> Dedicated to my ever wonderful beta KathyH, without whose dedication, care, hard work and thoughtful comments this wouldn't be half the fic it is. (Originally written/posted 2008 - 2012, so was literally part of my life for 4 years.)

_Buffy: You're heard of me?  
Dracula: Naturally. You're known throughout the world.  
~  
Tom Milligan: No need to ask who you are, the famous Martha Jones.  
~  
Jack: There’s a saying here on Earth, a very old, very wise friend of mine taught me it: an injury to one is an injury to all. And when people act according to that philosophy, the human race is the finest species in the Universe.  
~  
Jack: The end is where we start from._

**London, 17th of April 2010**

When Martha Jones received a phone call from Buffy Summers out of the blue one Saturday morning, her first impulse - as Buffy haltingly tried to introduce herself - was to reply: "I know who you are".

As if she could ever forget....

***

_The Year That Never Was, First Week_

It’s been six days since the Master took over the world. Martha has found her way to Scotland, having gained temporary shelter with an elderly retired couple in a small farmhouse near the sea. 

As they eat breakfast - a simple meal, eaten in haste with the curtains drawn - the TV in the corner of the room turns itself on. 

They all freeze in their seats before slowly turning to the flickering screen, watching as the Master’s maliciously smiling face appears.

“My dear subjects,” he begins, “Welcome to Morning Execution. But - first of all I want you to meet someone. I give you - Buffy Summers.”

The camera pans down to focus on a young woman, and Martha is transfixed. Everyone she has met - even those helping her - has been terrified. 

Buffy isn’t.

No - whoever Buffy Summers is she looks into the camera, and - despite bruises and shackles - her eyes are calm and cool and fearless. It is not just bravery, which Martha has seen plenty of, but something beyond - something she has so far only seen in the eyes of her Doctor. An innate strength or power, and a composure borne of having stared into hell itself. For an endless moment Martha gazes at the beautiful blonde on the screen, and wonders who and what she is. 

Then the camera returns to the Master and Martha shivers at the chill of his demeanour.

“Those of you who know her, pay attention. The Council is no more. You are all very, very alone. And I will _find_ you, and I will _kill_ you. Like so.”

The camera swoops as it follows the movement of the Master’s hand, the beam of the laser finding its mark with fluid surety as the girl who was Buffy collapses.

Martha has seen far too much death in the last few days for another murder to get to her, yet she keeps staring at the screen for a long moment after it returns to fuzzy static.

The Master’s words are still echoing in her mind, even though she doesn’t understand them. Who was Buffy that she merited such a death? Because this wasn’t just an execution - it was a warning. For whatever reason the Master feared Buffy and her mysterious ‘Council’; feared her enough to deliver a special worldwide message.

“Who was she?” Martha asks turning to her hosts, but they shake their heads. However they know someone who can help her move on that night, and for that she is grateful.

Not that she knows where to go - she has been moving north out of necessity rather than design, and has spent all her resources and energy on hiding and fleeing. How she is going to accomplish the task the Doctor has given her she does not know, and nearly despairs.

But that evening, tuning the couple’s old battery powered radio, a message comes through (long wave, and almost lost in static) which makes her fight back tears.

“...We will be fighting for a long time. We are outnumbered by monsters. Working around the clock, without quit. But humans have a strength that cannot be measured. This is Connor. If you are listening to this, you _are_ the resistance...” 

After that, things get easier.

Not just because she feels less alone but ‘Connor’ is clearly smart and good at organising, and once Martha manages to get in touch with the Resistance and explain her plan, most of the burden of the practical organisation is taken over by them.

They find her transport and hiding places and guides and suitable clothing, and she can concentrate on her actual work. But it is more than a week before anyone can answer the question she intermittently asks - ‘Who was Buffy Summers?’

She is in Sweden by then and the woman who is keeping careful watch turns and shakes her head.

“Ask your guide tonight,” she says, and Martha feels a small stab of excitement. A feeling which is tinged with surprise when her guide arrives. The girl looks to be about 14 years old, her round, freckled face and long plaits reminding Martha of Pippi Longstocking, yet there is an almost preternatural composure to her as she shakes Martha’s hand.

“Martha Jones - I am Hanna,” she says in precise, but accented, English, “I will be your guide to Finland.”

“Thank you,” Martha says, and then can’t help adding, “Sorry but - how old are you? Surely there must be someone older, someone...” 

She hesitates on the words ‘more qualified and experienced’, but Hanna smiles.

“I am 16, and I am a Slayer. Trust me, you will be more safe with me than with twenty men.”

“What’s a Slayer?” Martha asks, and Hanna’s face hardens, and before she answers Martha knows what she is going to say.

“Did you see the execution of Buffy Summers?”

Martha nods, and over the next several days hears the story of Buffy Summers of Sunnydale - The Girl Who Changed the World. Hanna’s English sometimes falters as she struggles to tell all the tales, but Martha learns of the ancient Slayer line and the Watchers, of vampires and demons and all kinds of things she would previously have dismissed as nonsense. But seeing is believing, in oh so many ways...

In this new and deadly world that the Master is building Slayers are like gold dust, and in many cases the backbone of the Resistance. They are spies, messengers, guides. They are strong, have endurance far beyond any normal human, are trained to be vigilant and alert - and most are already accustomed to the thought that their life will be short and brutal and end in violence. They all have that steel in their eyes that Martha first saw in Buffy’s, yet they shrug it off. ‘Imbued with the strength of the demon’ they call it, yet Martha knows that there’s more to it - most of these girls are still in their teens and yet they carry a burden that many grown men would balk at. Because the Master didn’t issue an empty warning. Martha sees dead Slayers displayed as warnings in town centres, watches several more executed on TV and often gets asked whether she, too, is a Slayer.

As her own fame begins to spread however, she starts to view the stories of Buffy in a different light. Who was this girl really? Was she, at times, as scared, and lonely, and tired, as Martha? How did she cope when everyone looked to her to save them? In the beginning Martha tried to think of the Doctor, but he’s too old, too alien, too clever, too... _otherworldly_ for Martha to relate to on a day-to-day basis. But Buffy had - despite everything - been just a girl, like Martha. One girl in all the world, a chosen one. And there was no way to be un-chosen, except death.

When the Master finally comes for her (as she knew he would, as she planned it), her courage nearly deserts her. But she closes her eyes and thinks of all the girls who have already given their life so that this moment might become reality and walks out onto the street to meet her own fate, whatever it might be.

***

In the now, the phone hot against her ear, Martha had to fight to realign her realities since, in her mind, Buffy had become part of that other world, the world that no one remembered - someone dead and mythical and inspirational, not someone who could actually call you up and talk to you.

She had just about managed this, when Buffy explained that she was calling because of Jack - and that she knew him, because they’d once dated... 

At which point Martha could feel great parts of her mind collapse and had to ask Buffy to repeat what she’d just said.

***

**London, 20th of April 2010**

Buffy was just like Martha remembered. And yet nothing like she expected.

The task which Jack had apparently left her with overshadowed any excitement, because how was she going to find the words to tell someone like Buffy what he had done? She had read the reports on the 456 incident, and cried - and had not known what to say to him when he came to say goodbye. 

But Buffy, after they had found each other in the cafe they had chosen for their meeting place, had slowly stirred her tea and then fixed Martha with that look which Martha had never forgotten. 

“Let me guess - he saved the world by killing a child.”

Martha stared at her, stunned, unsure how much Jack had told Buffy about himself but figured that there was no point in hiding anything.

“It was his grandson” she said quietly, and Buffy absorbed the blow almost imperceptibly as her eyes unfocused, watching something far, far away that Martha couldn’t begin to guess at.

“Oh Immortal,” she whispered, “I wish-”

Abruptly lowering her head she was silent for a long moment, but when she looked back up Martha nearly froze. Whether Buffy had let her defences down, or whether Martha had until then been too preoccupied with her preconceptions, she suddenly saw Buffy as just a young woman like herself... A woman as deeply struck by the tragedy that had unfolded as she was herself.

“Were you there?” Buffy asked, and Martha shook her head.

“I was on my honeymoon when it all went down. If he just hadn’t been so worried about interrupting-”

She stopped, knowing full well the hopelessness of this avenue, but saw the understanding on Buffy’s face and ventured a question. Buffy’s instinctive understanding spoke of a connection far deeper than Martha had anticipated.

“Sorry if I’m prying, but you and Jack... I think it was more than just straightforward ‘dating’?”

In return she received one of the saddest, yet most luminous smiles she had ever seen, and the words that followed made her question her assessment of Buffy as ‘just a girl’.

“No, it wasn’t just dating. We were a fairy tale.”

***

**Later that day, Buffy and Spike’s house**

He found her in front of the portrait. _Again_. Despite the Immortal’s instruction to destroy it Buffy had not only kept it, she’d brought it _home_ and hung it in one of their spare bedrooms where it took up an entire wall. 

He almost said something cutting, before realising that she’d been crying. Walking up to her he softly said “Buffy”, and she closed her eyes briefly, before whispering: 

“This is how the world ends...”

‘Not with a bang, but a whimper’, his mind filled in. T.S. Eliot of course - she’d been spending most of the Spring semester studying his poems and it was... fitting, considering. Whatever Spike had ever thought about The Immortal, there was no denying that the man he’d once known had been... _hollowed out_ by whatever had happened to him.

“What did this Martha tell you then?” he asked, and slowly she turned to him.

“She... confirmed what I suspected. But-”

She swallowed, her face seemingly caught between anger, revulsion and determination.

“I now know what he meant, when he asked me to help children. Why it had to be me. What I have to do.”

“Care to explain, Love?” he asked after a moment, and she handed him a document with Top Secret stamped across it.

“Martha gave me this - mostly because I don’t think she could bear to tell me exactly how and why he had to murder his grandson. When you’re done, I’m taking it to Giles and calling a General Meeting.”

She stood, head held high and eyes shining, clearly ready for battle.

“Who’re we fighting - those aliens?” he asked, bewildered, and she shook her head.

“Worse. Politicians. Corporations. Anyone with power.”

With one long last look at The Immortal’s enigmatic portrait she walked out, leaving Spike to stare after her perplexed.

The man had committed an unspeakable crime (and Spike knew that pain far too well to even begin to judge), but apparently Buffy’s ire - and sympathy - had been swept aside by something more powerful. Sitting down with the document he figured he’d better read what had got her in a more warlike mood than anything he’d seen since The First - but as he slowly absorbed what his government had been doing in secret he wasn’t sure whether he felt more nauseated or furious. Mostly he wanted to do a Guy Fawkes and raze the place to the ground - odd which times his blood lust returned full throttle.

Except it wasn’t just the UK - it was the whole world... What did Buffy have planned?

***

Buffy became a small blonde whirlwind of organising and activity. As well as new-acquired wealth she had a world-wide organisation at her fingertips, one with ancient ties to all kinds of powerful institutions, and she began setting up meetings with old men in expensive suits. Meetings which she’d attend flanked by flawlessly tailored Watchers, always starting with the same opening line:

“The death of this child saved the world. This must never happen again. Or next time we’ll make sure it’s _your_ grandchild.”

There followed discussions of the 456; protests that it had been an unusual situation; that something similar would never happen again; that they’d never heard of the deals to give away 10% of the children of every country... to which Buffy and her Watchers would smile stiffly, and bring out two documents: One detailing the near-endless list of known apocalypses; the other outlining in black-and-white how the global economy was in case after case built on the exploitation of children.

The response to this was usually a predictable catalogue of excuses, to which Buffy would coolly lay down her ultimatum:

Work to change the system, placing the welfare of children above profit - or the Council would withdraw their protection from the country in question (to begin with).

Against splutterings and fervent assurances that of course they wanted to help, but Buffy’s terms were quite simply ridiculous, she’d look them straight in the eye - unflinching, uncompromising.

“Every three seconds a child dies. I will not accept that. And neither will you. You have a year to get results.”

***

> She had always done it the only way she knew how: Day by day and demon by demon. 
> 
> _(Death is your art. You make it with your hands, day after day.)_
> 
> She had power - so much, she was overflowing. Enough for a world full of strong girls, purging evil: Day by day and demon by demon.
> 
> She had never thought to use that power for anything other than it was meant for.
> 
> Never thought to use it to change the world.
> 
> Still, she knew she was building on the work of others, people who made her work possible...
> 
> \- Angel who broke the Circle of the Black Thorn and the power of Wolfram & Hart - their power now scattered and uncertain, their clients unable to ignore her demands.
> 
> \- A mysterious alien, a Doctor of some kind, who had fought a war out of time and space and sealed the walls between dimensions, leaving Earth safe from endless hellions from endless dimensions.
> 
> \- And her beautiful Immortal who had failed... Failed so terribly, and with such a heavy price, that the image of a dead boy seared itself into her mind with irrevocable finality and required an immediate response. And yet - The Immortal was the one who had taught her how to wield a different kind of power: The power that lay in name and reputation and implicit threats; the kind of power that required no weapons, just the ability to wait for your opponent to blink first. A power that did not leave her with blood on her hands.

***

**London, 26th of June 2010**

The date still wigged her out. She’d look at the circled numbers on the calendar and a quiet shiver would crawl up her spine. Not that she could explain it - she had tried, but even Spike had looked skeptical, as it wasn’t so much a feeling of doom as a feeling of nothingness; of... _silence_. But despite keeping an ear close to the ground, and having every wicca on high alert, the day had dawned beautiful and sunny without the slightest hint of apocalypse anywhere.

Spike of course hadn’t been able to resist pointing out the backwards fortuitousness of the date:

“Even if it _is_ the end of the world, we’ll have plenty of experts in the house, so I’d say it’s win-win.”

The experts in question being 'Jack's' best friends. As she had begun to get the hang of her new mission she'd realised that she wanted to share her accomplishment with those who had known him best - they deserved to know what she was doing with the task he’d left her. Deserved to know that there had been a task, full stop.

And so she had invited Martha and Gwen and their respective spouses along for a dinner party. It could obviously not be as elaborate as The Immortal's lavish celebrations, but it would at the very least honour the spirit of those occasions. She was slightly worried that she'd not be able to create the right atmosphere, but at least she would have tried.

(And it couldn’t be worse than her meeting with Alice. Pale, drawn, lifeless - yet so much like her father that it had taken Buffy’s breath away. From the pale blue eyes (hard as flint), the thick black hair and the tilt of the chin, to the refusal to give even an inch. It wasn’t a meeting she’d wanted, but she felt an obligation to tell the woman about the work she was doing in her son’s name. Alice had not thanked her, but she had listened, and that had been more than Buffy had hoped for.)

Now however, as she opened the door for Martha and Mickey, she wondered if she’d miscalculated massively. Martha had been a great help when compiling her apocalypse list, but what if they had nothing else in common? What if... 

(Stop it, she scolded herself. Whatever would The Immortal say?)

Also before possible awkwardness there were introductions and general small talk and Buffy managed to get everyone into the front room where the polite, if slightly stilted, conversation was cut short when Martha was suddenly captivated by the photo gallery on the mantle piece.

“Oh my god - _Connor_ ,” she said, with equal parts surprise and recognition as she picked up a picture of Connor and Angel, then frowned.

“Is that... his father with him?”

There was a pause as Buffy looked at Spike, flummoxed, then turned to Martha who was now smiling nervously.

“Yes that’s Angel,” Buffy said slowly. “And... how do you know Connor?”

Martha’s eyes turned back to the photo in her hand and her eyes grew momentarily distant.

“Remember how I explained about the Year That Never Was? Connor was the leader of the resistance.”

Spike’s mouth fell open, and then a wide smile broke out on his face.

“Was he now? The boy done good, eh? Wait ‘till I tell his dad about this - we’ll never hear the end of it. Leader of the resistance, eh?”

“Why don’t we all sit down?” Buffy suggested, relieved at the introduction of a neutral subject and also feeling very much like The Perfect Hostess handing round drinks and nibbles as Martha began talking. 

“It was all very Terminator - he joked about that. Although the things he could do, the way he moved - he was _faster_ than the Toclafane, so he was pretty much the only person on the planet apart from me who could walk around as he pleased. Plus, he had all these survival skills that were just incredible. Don’t get me wrong, all the Slayers I met were amazing fighters, but Connor... He’d set up camp in these caves, all perfectly camouflaged and kitted out with, like, animal furs and wood, and it was the nicest place I visited all year. Plus...”

She seemed thoughtful.

“He said he’d grown up in hell... ”

“That’s true,” Spike said. “You believed him?”

Martha shrugged. “I’ve met Shakespeare and been to the end of the universe, so believing him wasn’t a problem. But it was... it was good to talk to someone else who understood. He was so calm, saying that it could be much worse. No one else ever said anything like that...”

“Hey - should I be jealous here?” Mickey cut in, and Martha laughed. 

Then there was a knock on the door, heralding the arrival of Gwen and Rhys, baby Anwen cradled in Gwen’s arms. 

For a moment everything stopped for baby admiration, and Buffy and Martha found themselves looking at each other, feeling similar thoughts percolating. But then Buffy pulled herself together - time to explain why they were here.

“OK, so... I asked you to come along today because... I know what it’s like to lose everything you lived for. And I know you don’t really know me at all, and that Jack never told you anything about me and him, but trust me when I say that we...”

She looked at Martha and Gwen, and tried to find the correct words.

“We _understood_ each other. So when he came to see me before he left, he gave me a task. It took me a while to work out what he meant, but with Martha’s input I worked it out...”

Heart in her throat, Buffy began explaining her new mission. Funny how she could stare down dictators without flinching but this meeting had her nerves shot to hell...

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but Gwen bursting into tears and hugging her, saying ‘Thank you’, probably counted as a success.

Mickey and Rhys also voiced their favourable opinion, but Martha was the one that threw her. She was watching Buffy with that _look_ \- the one she couldn’t quantify - before smiling.

“Buffy Summers of Sunnydale - The Girl Who Changed the World”, she said, but Buffy didn’t have time to ask what she meant as her timer started ringing and she needed to go sort out the food. 

A while later they were all at the table, Anwen asleep in a baby carrier, and the talk - much to Buffy’s relief - darted back and forth easily, initially centred around children and work.

“So you’ve really opted out completely?” Buffy asked, and Gwen nodded.

“Well there’s only me left...” 

She faltered briefly. 

“...And I just can’t do it. This is the first time we’ve been away from the house since Anwen was born. Mind you, we’ve still got plenty of guns... and other stuff. Just in case.”

“I’ve told you, we need to work something out,” Rhys cut in. “We can’t have weapons lying around. Anwen will be walking before we know it, and toddlers get in everything!”

“But what if something happens?” Gwen said. “I can’t... I can’t get rid of it. What if someone comes after us?”

“You have got to stop being so paranoid, love,” Rhys reassured, but Buffy shot Spike a look.

“Actually, that’s a good point. We’ve got weapons pretty much all over the house - there was a tragic incident with Willow’s cat back when we lived in Sunnydale, so we’ve tried to keep the crossbows stored more carefully, but I know there are plenty of creatures out there who’d like to come after us. And with kids around...”

“You not getting tired of it yet? The fighting I mean,” Mickey asked, and Buffy hesitated.

“I don’t know. I’ve cut way back, first because of my studies, and now because of all my travelling, but giving it up completely... Don’t know if I could do that. I was hoping Gwen could give me tips on combining motherhood and fighting. Since kids seem kinda inevitable...”

“Is that so?” Martha asked teasingly, and Buffy shrugged. 

“Well it is according to Jack.”

For a second she froze, wondering if he could be spoken of, well, _casually_ , but then Gwen nodded.

“Oh yeah - I was there when they did the DNA testing. He was... very happy.”

Spike raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah he told us that his psycho boyfriend from the future is descended from us. Nice to know...”

Buffy smiled.

“Well at least he’s got good taste.”

“Who?” Rhys asked.

“Either!” Buffy replied. “OK, so it’s a bit wiggy, but I figure three thousand years is probably a fairly big gap.”

“Martha said something about a fairy tale?” Mickey asked, voice carefully neutral, and Buffy couldn’t stop a smile spreading across her face.

“Well he was kinda tailor-made... Tall, dark-haired, gorgeous, hundred years plus and with a dark past - hel _lo_ Buffy’s type.”

“He’s cheesy though,” Mickey said, and Spike grinned from ear to ear.

“I _like_ you.”

Mickey shrugged. “Nice guy, but he was Jumpin' Jack Flash when we first met, making eyes at my girlfriend...”

Spike leaped forward.

“Tell me all about it.”

“Oh come on!” Buffy sighed. “Stop being so jealous.”

“’M not jealous,” Spike said, reservedly. “I just don’t know what it is about broody guys with stupid hair that makes all the women go funny.”

“Jack doesn’t have stupid hair,” Gwen said defensively, and Buffy sighed.

“He was kinda talking about my first boyfriend, Angel.”

“Who spends more money on hair gel and fancy suits than is legal,” Spike added.

“Really?” Mickey said, shooting Martha a telling look. “I think you’re onto something there.”

“Oh don’t start on the Doctor,” she admonished, but he raised an eyebrow. 

“Come on - hair gel and fancy suits? That’s him to a tee!”

“Let me guess,” Spike said drily, “Turned up, looking mysterious and brooding, and swept her off her feet before refusing to commit and took off into the night?”

“No,” Martha said pointedly, before immediately backtracking. “OK, there might have been a... bit of sweeping, but there were Judoon and... Anyway, _I_ left _him_. Ancient mysterious world-saving aliens are all well and good, but I prefer humans.”

“We stick around, don’t we love?” Rhys added, and Gwen smiled.

“That you do. Wouldn’t swap for the world.”

Somewhere underneath Buffy could feel the unsaid ‘and those too-good-to-be-true heroes are also too dangerous’ but no one was going to voice it. Which was good.

“And sometimes,” she added, watching Spike closely, “they turn human...”

He smiled back, happiness dancing in his eyes, and as if by magic all her end-of-the-world premonitions suddenly melted away into nothing. Everything was going well, and why had she been so worried?

But then someone mentioned football...

“Spirit of ‘66... now that was a game worth watching.”

There was a moment’s pause, then Rhys leaned forward.

“You mean you were there...”

“Damn straight I was there. Done up like the Stig, mind you, on account of the daylight and all. Although the European Cup Final in ‘68 was pretty brilliant too... You know, Man U was the first English team to ever win the European Cup. Which, having followed them for nigh on 80 years, was worth the wait!”

“Hang on,” Mickey said, “followed them for 80 years?”

“130 now! Man U was originally formed back in 1878-”

“OK, that’s it,” Buffy said, getting up. “I’ve spent enough time listening to football talk to last me three lifetimes. And actually I was thinking... Gwen, Martha - do you want to come with me? There’s something I wanted to show you...”

Their relief evident, the two women excused themselves and seconds later Buffy closed the door behind them.

“You have _no idea_ the amount of obstacles in the way of me and Spike getting together, but I think football might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back... Anyway, follow me.”

She led them up the stairs and then across the landing to the larger of the spare bedrooms, turning on the light as she opened the door, since it had almost gone dark now. Then she stood back and let the other two walk through, not saying a word only watching them carefully - and they didn’t disappoint.

Gwen’s eyes grew to the size of saucers, and Martha actually brought a hand up to her mouth.

“But that’s...”

“Is it real?” Gwen asked, and Buffy nodded. 

“Oh yeah. Got an expert in to check, just to be on the safe side, and it’s more than 400 years old. Touch it if you like.”

Slowly Gwen walked forward until she could touch the surface of the painting. It looked incongruous here, and half the time Buffy felt like an art thief.

“He asked me to get rid of it, but... But I just couldn’t.”

Martha nodded.

“I can see why...”

Tilting her head back, Buffy studied it once more. The extravagant, luxurious clothes, the swagger, the exquisite paint work. And the face... beautiful, smiling, remote - the real man as unchanging and eternal as the picture on her wall. But he was a time traveller... 

She had wondered if the picture had been painted before or after they’d met - after, she suspected. There was a distance to the features that spoke of age and wisdom that she’d yet to see him develop. A peacefulness that she hoped he would some day find. (A peacefulness she was hopefully helping him reach.) One day he would not only be able to go to Italy once more, he would be able to create a name and a life for his younger self to indulge in. A lifeline during a century’s worth of waiting. 

“I guess I wanted to show you because...” 

She faltered a little as the other two turned to her, then smiled softly, thinking of fairy tales and a shared flight from reality.

“Because you knew someone called Jack. But _this_... this was _my_ Immortal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banner above adapted from [original wallpaper](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/elisi/4713981/179718/original.png) by methosivanhoe.
> 
> I was also gifted two banners: [one by kateydidn't](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/elisi/4713981/562352/562352_original.jpg) and [one by Methos.](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/elisi/4713981/561939/561939_original.png)
> 
> ♥


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